


Library of Congress 


Chap. 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
















• •- •, 







?»*7? 

r' ,y\ 



i • 

t 




,• <’ 


■ ‘- ^.*r 




■! .-.s. V - ■ A».> 3^ 

MMBBnBSESfl^'' • ‘ *♦ ' ■ : ^ \ 


5;® : 

- *' I - '•>*•' - V ". ' 

.. :■ 


-. (!£■ •■.■ ■';■■# ■ r-i"” - t-l 

■ '/.} 

V 




f yj 


?/^Sv 



i •*• 


Z ^'-^ • 


7 - 


. , . v .. - ‘ ''t \, , 

A , '■ * ■ v.^V -^ • « » • 




tfv r *** *•'/ 

» • . . k 





4 *’i 


: 

i 



Ir. 


i 


• , t 

. *. I 

‘ * y * 


0 


wi* ^ * 

» ..' * V ' 1 





V'- » h rt; 


%K< ' ' 


•> 






r'X ; 


* • V 




._, :k.v '-:.• ■ 

rf_-_^ 'fa 1.'. 




• 'i 

4' 


tZ . . 


« •>. 




iW 


"r 

» '■ 


•V 


f. 


- V-^‘ ' 

cvr^ . ■ 


t* • 



’ ':^ 3 

v^‘ 

-* *^o!5^ 


'*tr 


> •( 


- V r 

a a . • a."i 

uu 


W -?/. i 


•(' 


I ' 

> » 

• 'r\ 


C ' *♦ 


‘ .• ^ -' • ^.- -‘ '. ;■** ,. ■ ^ 4’S.* » •■ • V *^P' » 

' ‘* >-- -^' 


‘ilv 


.’t . 

.' . IV 

‘ . J 






'• . 

<• 






V - 
4*. • ‘ 


, I 



i 


■ ^v* 

. \MK 


,-. ff * 

JUr ^ V*.’ -ii 


tf4l . ‘ 


< I 




^r7: 





■ V 

V 




.-1 






. i 


*. ^. 4 * 


■/ •. 









!1 


• *’^. J 







« ‘ i . 


1: tr.>-sjki!uil .r.lJ 




■ I 






'^T nn •' 


• •» 


-cr 


■ .• < 


V . 



k/ ; * 


:. V \ 


V , 


■ ■ 

\ ■ 

’ ' *%■ ' * * * * w •* 

;■• \V .< • % *' ' X^- 


v* 


i' 7 :< 




' ■. ■ * )■ 


■ • '■’ '-fv 

- ' ^ ^ I 


•' ■' *%<•'! * 


I. ■> 


• y 


. . , _ / x** ' . 

V aV'. ' 




I 

T*-^ 






i 

«• ' « 


• *■>'* 
V 


Cl, ^ • ? • ' • • ’ ‘ • 


■ -K ' H 

•'V* 


-•. 1 


• ^ «• -a * ^ < 

•/v ^ * ,. •V' /f. 




*,• • ' 


• V I 



'* r.v/.. 


'. /■ 

• » » 




; , •.». 


4 ^ J * 


'.; .' -.mvjv -/ • 


f '■ i 



V'". > 


'* . » • *• . -. % , j ,, ^ 

'TV 

• . 4 ^*v• • .-WK 

•> . • . 1 LaaTri 



■ .^ 


I '• /' 


!'■ »■ 


" / • 


-r ' 

- € V'.- ^'' '■• - .*r ^ 'f 



': ^ 




> VKiT ?< 





Mil 1 .^. '(^: 

SE;-.n)|:j| 


- sv . J • 

'-’V 




^«^VT 



I# 



o 



*1 


'\ • 


^ J M 

' '?- 4 C * 






< ■ - . ■' 


1 ^ 

4\ • '■'- •>' 

'W: v: ’; - :,j t 

S' .vf ■ . ■' ■ 


' • ^ V 


■- 1 


' r • . V-i - * 


-mi 

’T-7 • /I V. » v. 


Crl 





,• v.?_. tyuF > , V.' 

V r'ivffifiPfV* ' ' '’ 

- . . ■•'>':'0'<‘t7i^ '.ri y ^awl^ 


>. 



v»s«. 


itt‘. 


'.. * • » 

i •* • 








^ . * 


»• .r i 


/ •*< 


J C 







A 


. Si 




.1 ■ 


fc • * 




^ . 


**». - 


: . jj: 


V/ •* ' 


,. r - 


.v» 














k-* V i 

- « . I* * i' ■ 4 

• • • ' Li^' .. • 


. * ■*,:, « . -, 
V V 


» * C'M<’/ f. 


^ ■ r 




/. 




•. Ir 


, V. ;-ry; '''. , '• • . , , ^ 




'.t,. 


. . - / 


^ « 



•I V , 'ij" I , . * •; 

•-■- r, “fti' . *'■ •■'■■•■ 

I y^-c m ■* * . ** #■ 


■ M iSx f^' 





‘r .’.-i ■ • 


■ '-4 





Price 50 cents. 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 

^ £0t)c Btox^, 

BY TiJE AUTHOR OF 

“JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN,” &c. 



NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1874. , 



GEORGE ELIOT’S NOVELS. 

The Only Complete American Edition. 


MIDDLEMARCH. Two Volumes, i2mo, Cloth, $3 50. 

Cheap Edition, 8vo, Paper, 50; Cloth, $2 00. 

ADAM BEDE. Illustrated. 12 mo. Cloth, 00. 

FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL. Illustrated. 1 2 mo. Cloth, $i 00. 

Cheap Edition, 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $i 00. 

Cheap Edition, 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

ROMOLA. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1 00 . 

8vo, Paper, 50 j Cloth, $2 00. 

SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, and SILAS MARNER, THE WEAVER 
OF RAVELOE. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $i 00. 


London Review. . 

It was once said of a very charming and high- 
minded woman that to know her was in itself a 
liberal education ; and we are inclined to set an 
almost equally high value on an acquaintance 
with the writings of “George Eliot.” For those 
who read them aright they possess the faculty 
of educating in its highest sense, of invigorating 
the intellect, giving a healthy tone to the taste, 
appealing to the nobler feelings of the heart, 
training its impulses aright, and awakening or 
developing in every mind the consciousness of 
a craving for something higher than the pleas- 
ures and rewards of that life which only the 
senses realize, the belief in a destiny of a nobler 
nature than can be grasped by experience or 
demonstrated by argument. In reading them, 
we seem to be raised above the low grounds 
where the atmosphere is heavy and tainted, and 
the sunlight has to struggle through blinding 
veils of mist, and to be set upon the higher 
ranges where the air is fresh and bracing, where 
the sky is bright and clear, and where earth seems 
of less account than before and heaven more 
near at home. And as, by those who really feel 
the grandeur of mountain solitudes, a voice is 
heard speaking to the heart, which hushes the 
whispers in which vanity, and meanness, and 
self-interest are wont to make their petty sug- 
gestions, and as for them the paltry purposes of 
a brief and fitful life lose their significance in the 
presence of the mighty types of steadfastness and 
eternity by which they are surrounded, so, on 
those readers who are able to appreciate a lofty 
independence of thought, a rare nobility of feel- 
ing, and an exquisite sympathy with the joys and 
sorrows of human nature, “ George Eliot’s ” 
writings can not fail to exert an invigorating and 
purifying influence, the good effects of which 
leave behind it a lasting impression. 

Boston Transcript. 

Few women — no living woman indeed — have 
so much strength as “ George Eliot,” and, more 


than that, she never allows it to degenerate into 
coarseness. With all her so-called “masculine” 
vigor, she has a feminine tenderness, which is 
nowhere shown more plainly than in her de- 
scriptions of children. 

Saturday Review. 

She looks out upon the world with the most 
entire enjoyment of all the good that there is in 
it to enjoy, and an enlarged compassion for all 
the ill that there is in it to pity. But she never 
either whimpers over the sorrowful lot of man, 
or snarls'and chuckles over his follies and little- 
nesses and impotence. 

Macmillan'' s Magazine. 

In “ George Eliot’s ” books the effect is pro- 
duced by the most delicate strokes and the nicest 
proportions. In her pictures men and women 
fill the foreground, while thin lines and faint color 
show us the portentous clouds of fortune or cir- 
cumstance looming in the dim distance behind 
them and over their heads. She does not paint 
the world as a huge mountain,with pigmies crawl- 
ing or scrambling up its rugged sides to inac- 
cessible peaks, and only tearing their flesh more 
or less for their pains. * * ^ Each and all of 
“ George Eliot’s ” novels abound in reflections 
that beckon on the alert reader into pleasant - 
paths and fruitful fields of thought. 

Spectator. 

“George Eliot” has Sir Walter Scott’s art 
for revivifying the past. You plunge into it with 
as headlong an interest as into the present. For 
this she compensates by a wider and deeper in- 
tellectual grasp. 

Examiner. 

“George Eliot’s” novels belong to the endur- 
ing literature of our country — durable, not for 
the fashionableness of its pattern, but for the 
texture of its stuff. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 


Harper & Brothers will send either of the above books by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 

United States, on receipt of the price. 


eyy 

. : ^ >!: 


* A rj 1.1 ,V. 






•■' • ■ ' •... ^ ‘ ..v.u:;) 




1 ' 






•' • : ' ■''.\i> • ''-’fir-* .;•■'■ ' . 

. t * ■ u .'■..■'XS 

' -■■ ■ ', ^ V* ' '■■ .V-' *•" '.v^r ,.v. 

» -V - •' > :' •, ,1 . ^ , • »>. . , •• 

. 's • y '7 . ■• 1^ ■ I - , - ■ .* •• ' • . 

. -• * t j,\ '?• •■ • ♦ • D. «:. ’A. Lx. r ■ . -■ 


V 

I-'-' 




J 


fol 


■ . i 


••■*•* *♦• V-.:** •■ '1. ' 


1^ ^ A ^ / '*■ 

'• ■ 


■‘.r'A’ t' -li?' 

*V •• \ , 



■r. .lf«r 


.yr>* 


V ’'N^ 




• 5. './;■ ^ 


‘ i .*1 


• 4* * ;." 

■■*■•" -^-0 *1 .•< * ■ %'fl,' -/■ 

V'tfiw •■ •, •’ r X- ': 1?“. Cc ' X.- 

- . ^MWV£ • .*1 . , * / r IK* . • . 

■ 

;'47v- 


... I- , ^ 


1' .: 


' "^v 

-V 


■ I » 


• r 

7' 




i 


> ■ j' 


*v ’ fjr I 

. ,7. ^x**' ■*;*.*'* ^ t.-" 




■^ 7 ', 






r /* T 

' *? * • I 






•A.-, v,; 


'"f . ... 






I X 
\. • 


Tv^' 


• • M. 


■ •■ .* 
t 


V. . « > 

, » 

* »• 




•TJf 


■ ,if!W • ... W*1 , >' , .• > 1 » \W 

*.7'^ 




‘ • - ,^ r*, • . ;• w ^••- ‘: • • - ^ ► 

,' ■ ' ' >X ' * • ^ ' •. * ? ' ^ ■ !>' "• - < ‘. • V 'j 

■ , .r- .■ ■ ., ■ -- .i'- 

V>v-V . .■ A ■ S . '•4/- .-.'i 




t ■ 1 • . 


• * 


. > 


» • • x . i '• ■ k’.»--»* ■» : * - (»''■*• '■:•''' ■ ' . ’. * . ‘ I *' ,• •• . .’■ . I ’ ■ • **»- 1 '.u'- *t 

■,v .• .1. .■'■■vr-> . , .,!'!C 

4* k . r • . , « - i: • >, . . . . • •4'»“' ' ^ ‘ ^ ^ ■ . . . .TT> 

'■•■ ' T ■■- ■•• "' ::'V 


. ■ 1 


• t 


■.\.-'^r 

y • 


^ , ,1. . 






1 ,i V 


•• 


•k' 


I ■ 

• / 


• A 1* > ' 

T ^j/», . 

V 

> t • 


*.:j 

•.f 


% 


*• « 




-■••■' -• < ••^r 1'. V • '.. -r •■■ ^ . 

^ ,„V 

. ■‘.* ' !-■*• .:“. .*k ■ ‘ ■*M*i4 , '.V -■> '■' /'fit 

■’ , ■'li'-- ; V- , // 

* */ I' 1 u,'' ' ' */«*•' 

■ ^ .i ^"*3 l*/*-*‘ 'y' — ^ ' 

■ ■ -’*. ' ••* •, . r- ^ ^ * .7 .r-:w. '■ 


V*i . ' J t . 





. .. '• 


* ’ * 




»♦'/ 


s»- 


'bC'y.'’iVv.''' /-v 

i/ .'J- V • .v/i’ • 

■ ,■►!>'■ ' V.N ,- '- ' 


fe ', , 


vf 




• «.■• ■ 

' • w * ) 

■til\ .-r^ y .1 • •- 


.♦W‘ ‘r* . '* 
i . ) 

' ’ ' • • >‘ / '• *. c 

.j|. > •-. 

^ V • 4 * ’ 


•V 


» f 


r*''-''- • • i’ , 


f ^ 


I .*,. 




*• 

■ ■*> 


rC 

■‘/•‘‘i.- I*./ • 




■A,v,V- • 

. '. 1 7 • • 


.:V';-', i;- : .f..= • ' . •": 'V-nv'- ■ nm ago. iW 




»v 


>-* , < » 

• * 


J. * ‘‘ ■ f ‘'■“ ’. 

* • 



^ \V? 


*, • 

•' V 




-»-n 




:; ■• .N..1W Hi»:‘ • 4 d.'*- - 

' ■■'•.^' . > ■■ ' ,*^ '. s 

.. . “ .1\ -•./■ 


‘•.V .*»jr* 


i; 


..V, 




• ■ i . . •'. ■ 

» ‘‘.W^ 

j 




T • • I « » • 1 

• 4.' » ' W 

1 V ‘ '/ ; - 

^ '* ' V. •t ' 






*\0- 


■ r *. • 

- • *r 


- » , . * 


k ■> • »• t. 


<4 


WV: V v'V’-. '■ 


"A',/ « V'-/ •,'*' 


■ j,* * *'■ .'ffifS. • • 

' -’'K 

'-y; ^ ^ ■^ K 


ff:- 


■■'’• .^1 . * ' ■ ■ ■ ' . 'ii’/" '‘. r ■ ‘■: ' 7 -n '■'■ ' -i . >’ ■ ■ ■••.*■ '■•* *'*• >*'■ ‘ ** ' '4^ ^ » ^" • ■ ' » 7 

'■"■■'■■ ■•■/ '..A- / '■■• V .v.^rj'. "/: ■ *. 

‘ ■ . :.. •, /• /> ■/.^- ->.:■/■ ■" ■■•A ' ' - 

■. .: ; ■' '■' ',>.■■■ ‘ >• . . . .. •-. ■ '. ^ . .. y .pi, i'.: '■■■' 

■V-' . ' 7v- -A. -•■’• ■ A'r '■■ - ■ 







.t '»*.• '*••• ’ •l'' *:»* . V • • 

« „ ■ 


I 


i.' 


■'• .*. 


v-., ; V •' . viic; r’ :.^ 


.,« .y 


» 1 . 
( 


•s <'* ' 

,'■'. • fi- 


■'a' k ■] • V.,,-,- 


r. ■' ■’*' ■' ■ .'■' ' 


’. ^ 1 

r > «» • t 


•» • 




. \r 


* ...» . ' ‘ ' 
iw » 4 ^ * r#-'* J 

*• - » it* ' ■ • I 


; • . jI) * 

• ': r', .• 

# ♦ » 

•A •' * . * 


I 


A ,.;!i5 


. .1 


S i, »» 


4» * . 
% ^ 




»\ 
w*' 


. I 



,r2'4 ■** 


i ; / •■ 




urn 






f. «•>; 










mm, 





HE SAYS THE 6KNEKAL BENT HIM.” — [SEE TAOE 64 .] 




/ 


MY MOTHER AND I 

^ tovt Story. 

ID i«n*a-Vi r^a-V.a- Hu)<#ct7 Cv'eU = 

•> 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN,” &c. 

fV/TIT ILLUSTRATIONS. 



NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1874. 

s 




V 


BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOHN HALIFAX.” 


JOHN HALIFAX, G-ENTLEMAN. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents; lamo, Illustrated, Cloth, $i 50. 

OLIVE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; lamo, Cloth, $i 50. 

OGILVIES. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; lamo. Cloth, $i 50/ ' 

NOTHING NEW. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

MISTRESS AND MAID. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; lamo. Cloth, $i 50. 

AGATHA’S HUSBAND. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; lamo, Cloth, $i 50. 

A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; lamo. Cloth, $i 50. 

A NOBLE LIFE. lamo. Cloth, $i 50. 

CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE. i2mo. Cloth, $i 50. 

AVILLION, AND Other Tales. 8voJ Taper, $i 25 - ^ 

THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents; lamo, Cloth, $i 50. 

THE TWO MARRIAGES. lamo, Cloth, 50. 

THE UNKIND WORD, "and Other Stories. lamo. Cloth, jSi 50. ^ 

THE WOMAN’S KINGDOM. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $i 00; Cloth, $i 50; lamo. Cloth, $1 50. 

A BRAVE LADY. With Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, 00; Cloth, $i 50; lamo. Cloth, 50. 

HANNAH. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents; lamo. Cloth, $i 50. 

MY MOTHER AND I. Illustrated. lamo, Cloth, 50; 8vo, Paper, 50 cents, 

A HERO, AND Other Tales. lamo, Cloth, $i 25. 

FAIR FRANCE. Impressions of a Traveler, lamo. Cloth, sa 
OUR YEAR. Illustrated. i6mo. Cloth, Gilt Edges, $i 00. 

STUDIES FROM LIFE. lamo, Cloth, $i 25. 

MOTHERLESS; OR, A Parisian Family. Translated from the French of Madame De Witt, fiJe Guizot. For 
Girls in their Teens. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $i 50. 

A FRENCH COUNTRY FAMILY. Translated from the French of Madame De Witt, Guizot. Illustrated. 
i2mo, Cloth, $i 50. 

THE ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE. Illustrated. Square i6mo, 90 cents. 

FAIRY BOOK. Illustrated, izmo. Cloth, $i 50. 

THE LITTLE LAME PRINCE AND HIS TRAVELLING CLOAK. Illustrated. (/« Press.) 

BOOKS FOR GIRLS. Written or Edited by the Author of “John Halifax.” Illustrated. i6mo. Cloth, 90 cents 
each. Now ready: 

LITTLE sunshine’s HOLIDAY. THE COUSIN FROM INDIA. TWENTY YEARS AGO. 

IS IT TRUE? AN ONLY SISTER. MISS MOORE. 


PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 

Harper & Brothers wt// send either of the above Works by mail, postage prepaid^ to 
any part of the United States ^ on receipt of tJie price. 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE. 

“ He says the General sent him” Frontispiece . 

Head-Piece 11 

“You’re a Widow, I see?” 17 

“At this Moment up came the Carrier’s Cart” 22 

Head-Piece 24 

“He offered the Coin to me, with a half Smile and a Bow” .... 26 

“You WILL PARDON AN OLD MaN FOR ADDRESSING A STRANGE LaDt” ... 29 

Head-Piece 38 

“ General, this is Mrs. Picardy” 44 

“I CAME, AND HE LEANED ON Me” 49 

Head-Piece . . . . . . . . • / • • • • . 55 

“I CAN see him now, SITTING WITH HaNDS FOLDED AND EyES LOOKING STRAIGHT 

BEFORE him” . . ' . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 

Head-Piece 65 

“Instinctively i shrank back out of my Grandfather’s Sight” ... 69 

“I CROUCHED once MORE ON THE HeARTH-Eug” . . ’ 75 

Head-Piece 79 

“For all that, she ought to go” 87 

“ He drew MY Arm through his” 89 

Head-Piece 92 

.“Cousin Conrad put his Hand a Moment lightly on my Shoulder” . . 102 






' ' ‘.r 




'ft-’i. 


i'-'. ' M ' V 

, ■ .J. 








• - ;» 


1 * . , ■ ■ ' “ 

I 


- V 










* 




• • 

* 1, 


^ - •* 


',»V- V _: 

' .:.v ' 

f* • '• ♦ • ■• 

•V • 




A- 


-•r* 


‘.•'-■^i- - ■.....i. .- -^r 


.n 


»• 4-t ** 


, ^ * 




. . >v: 




V < ** 

, t 

A 


■ii 


i 

* 


t > 


"-*1 ; V 




- V. ’ '. ; 


t . » 


•** ^ 

• ^ A . . ^ i» • *♦ 

t ^ ^ ’»* » 


:.'.^f5v 


^ r^,iy 


'• ^ '■ 


. - 5 




^ / V < .i’ . . ^ 




..K i) -\:' I ‘i?ii fj fe .? 






Tt* 


P^:: 2 S 


:■-, >.»■ , 



r. 


V , .» 


' . • a'J ' . 




•* I I 


' » > • * * 


* 


. “^**1 


-w4' ^ '. 


t *. 

> 




' ' I 


!t .. A.;^j ■' - V V**.; ' 



, .- a,i •.ftl'.'y:' 


’■ 

* 


'f *' 


» i j •' • • A I fc 


u<« 
. # 




.f 


ll 


p 




?y- 


‘A* - •< 






<V 


r*“ • 


« « 


» * 4 j • r 


# vu . ^ ^ 


’Ml 


► . '. j i 

*i. i-* .‘- w 


_ I 

/ 


'k 


1^ 


• T fc', 


j '^RBBiTMsJf '. y«»'-T *• 

A j vV* ." • / • *. 

1 ■- " " •' ’ * 
-i ., ^-rv- » ... 

. .‘w,/ , ;a?''-. i. 


’V. 

•'A 


’’..♦.!1X .’■'«. L.i-i'A -rv ar>Vj/0 »’j' -,: 


•V 

'!•■> V- 


• ■'> •*!< •' ■f •- '■ 


• . . >■ 'ti- . • 

f..:* • 

f 




V ' 

Vv / . 

1 * 


• . 


• r 



\W^ I « 

* ^ r 4 .. * 


4^' 


4‘- 


M.; 


> /‘V^ ^ 

, y- '■ ■". >a‘i ■ • 

- , « 




%* 

. ^ 


- ' I - • • * . 

•.s •* > 


'•* 


’‘j • 

•• . * 


A » 


>J. 


- h. 


-V‘ 




L» ' .7 ' . 

7» ' ^ " ■’ ‘V ' •' 


-■f-V V,,. 


m 

i'. *' 


' V# 


■ •. 


m 




k . 


4 ^ 


4* 


,2k 


•* *»»«*>». ^•••* V “**’*'<t^4i5** t 

t . r.s-# x< k r •- ••./•v ^ ^ 






i.;^t 


4«>. > 

*■ 


* - Ji,V 'r'?' 


c 


*• • 




f :VfV'»i. ■ -.-' ''']'■*’ '.-I “4^ .- ' ■* - 




' /iJr - '•V'/- 
* ^ , 




> it', r*^ « ♦ '• T' •• f • ^r r iSyd. 

J. « . t ) * ‘ c * . 1 V 4 'l/J I « I “N 4 ^ »4 « * 


vV 

:'-r> 



.V 


, # V 1‘ • » 

• -*. 


lcV«' 


.’r,* rw •'t ^*V**’* *. »Jf** ^'i •w^if • 

• T J * . • * W'f4Ji • 4^^ * « ,4^*-. 

. .A •• ’ *\i- • .. ' . - ^ • 




...\- 


/ . r 


a f -I 


v ■ .;v^ • ■ .• • • ■••, . ,;■ • <' : •* m*^v ■ ^ ‘ • •• 

’’ ‘ " ‘ ‘ .•■>;.■ .UnU' f • ,v4j. . ' V'-'J'* ^ y.iJi'I I : ’ 

<: '•■ ,* -'. 11 : "n^-/ ;;r rV,:U 7.--;.:^: Vrx . ' 


j ( 






• SI . 


SV ',r#-. ■■ ■ :1 ■■ •• 


•» • 


VH^ 





-1 


- ? 

< ■ * 


) 


■ f. 

1* 


^l*jC|. I 




'ivV ’ 


- • * v' , 


I . 

<*• /» 


s . 


* • . 4 . y - ^ 

^ ’ ^ ,« r ■*^- ' • 


o 


tV /. 

'!v ' .. 


i . * ' 

£ I? v, * . 

•» .V.', , . T* ’ 




>; 

i ’ 




i I 


/0» 






,' a ♦ . 



'.4 % . * • 






« • 

W •. 


•i-^ ’ 

W 


'.» • 


- Ic' # V- •- 
,.„ ■' .>'/'■ Vu^' ^yv^*, 

\' < ^ • ' -v/ « I. « tf #.. «.^4 • & 

f : .:V-.- ■ 

Sew- 


"c *7 tU' i;»i. Uv> ^ 

. "i-ki ‘ r -r-td. ;7.'; ,;•'. 7 j 1 -i ;C r -fB, 

• t ' * • . 


, C' 

A. « 


‘-r^- ■ 


" * 7;* ' 

* • a . ‘ 


.‘A 


aj*.- 




^ > • ; 


a Vn 


V ' -4 







'•^4,'. a *• . 


■.‘;'>- It? J .■ / . . .. , •'■a 

. • : '.- ■ '• ' ■ ■‘■' ■. .4 :;i^i .. 






m- 




I , 7 >' 


.. . ': J/ -v 


b /,/>.-• .^1 > «. ‘ »• . » ■ , 





< I 


' * . J ‘V^ ^ 

^¥. ,, ■ 

.#^■1 



a*. 


■X?}- d' 'V 

'*7'«'' V ^b-7 


.<; 


^ V.' <1. .• ., ^ .',j»'A 

a.. a.,t~ '*'4 ' lA CA h 

'* c' ' f* a • ■ a 


aij* 


/S>: 




•Hv-r;? 


I 



» * I 


‘•z 


A- 




i^Y'/ t ' 


la 7* 

. f ■ 


.aa» 1 » 






. h 


aV 


> 1 -. 






•H 


£« 




MY MOTHER AND I. 

/ 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Seventy years ago, my darling; seventy years ago.” 



So munnHrs Tennyson’s ‘‘Grandmother” 
to her “ Little Annie,” telling, without pain, 
the painful incidents of a long-past youth. 

I have no little Annie, and it is not quite 
seventy years since I was a girl ; hut still I 
can understand how the old woman talked 
of her girlhood, and even enjoyed doing so, 
in a sort of way. 

Revisiting lately, after a long lapse of 
time, a place where I once spent six months 
— the six months which were the turning- 
point in my whole life — I see my own old 
self so vividly and with such a curious in- 
terest, nay, even pity, as if it were somebody 
else, that I half incline to tell the whole 
story : a story so simple, so natural, so like- 
ly to have happened, in one form or another. 


to many a girl, and withal so long ended, 
that it can do nobody any harm, and may do 
somebody some little good. 

Poor Elma Picardy! Looking back a1 
her, she seems to be — not me at all, but “ a 
girl in a book.” If I were to put her into 
a book, would she help other girls a little ? 
Perhaps 5 for I believe many another girl 
has gone through a similar experience ; has 
had her fate settled for good or ill before 
she was out of her teens 5 has gone through 
the same hard struggles, all alone, with no- 
body to advise or comfort her, and a cluster 
of extraneous folk standing by, looking on 
and discussing her, in the cold, wise — I 
mean worldly-wise — way in which elder 
people do discuss the young, as if they them- 
selves had forgotten their own youth, or 
possibly had never had any. It is different 
with me. I was young once — young and 
foolish. I know it ; yet am not ashamed 
of it ; and it may help me to be a help to 
some other poor girl, who has no mother to 
speak to, or if she has one, would not speak 
to her if she could, or could not if she would, 
since, alas 1 all these cases do sometimes 
happen. For such a one I will write my 
story. 

My name was Elma Picardy, as, indeed, it 
is still ; and I was just seventeen, an only 
child, whose life would have been perfectly 
solitary except for her mother. 

My mother and I. Never were there such 
friends as my mother and I ; real equal 
friends, in addition to being mother and 
daughter. It was so from my cradle, my 
father having died a month after I was 
born. I never had a nurse-maid : she was 
too poor to give me one, even had she wish- 



12 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


ed ; but I think she did not wish. I was 
all she had, and she preferred keeping me 
wholly to herself. Besides, in those days 
mothers took care of their children rather 
more than they think it necessary to do 
now. It was not considered that even her 
duties to society compelled a lady to resign 
to a staff of inferior women that other duty 
— ^to bring up for God and man those pre- 
cious little human souls and bodies with 
which Heaven had intrusted her. The world 
still held the old-fashioned opinion that to 
be a mother, in the largest sense, was at 
once the highest honor and the chiefest use- 
fulness to which any woman could aspire. 

So my mother, both by choice and neces- 
sity, was my only nurse, my sole playfellow. 
From morning till night and from night till 
morning we were never apart. It was, of 
course, an exceptional condition of things ; 
but so it was, and I have never ceased to be 
thankful for the fact, and for its result, that 
through all my babyhood and childhood I 
learned absolutely nothing but what I learn- 
ed from her. Afterward other people taught 
me ; for though a well-read, she was not ex- 
actly an accomplished woman ; but that was 
mere outside learning. My true education, 
the leading and guiding of soul and heart, 
was never in any hands but my mother’s. 
In the course of years she ceased to be my 
governess, but she never ceased all her days 
to be, as the Bible says, “ my companion, my 
guide, my most familiar friend.” 

Yes, familiar, though she was thirty when 
I was born. But this gulf of time did not 
seem to affect us. Either she slipped gently 
down to my level, or I stepped up to hers ; I 
knew not how it was done, but done it was, 
the gulf being bridged over without any con- 
scious effort on her side or mine. And the 
trust between us was equal to the sympathy. 
I hear girls nowadays say, ^‘Oh, don’t tell 
mamma ; she wouldn’t understand.” Why, 
my mother understood every thing, and I al- 
Avays told her every thing ! As soon as I 
could speak it was, Look, mammy, look !” 
at every new felicity; and as for sorrow, 
from the day when I broke my doll till I 
broke — something else : only I did not quite 
break it — my first cry was, “Mother — I want 
my mother !” Day and night my only shel- 
ter was in her bosom. I remember, and can 
feel still, though I am an old woman, the in- 
finite healing of her kiss for all anguish, 
great and small. 


My mother was quite alone in the world, 
being, as I said, widowed directly after my 
birth. My father was an Indian officer. 
From his miniature, he must have been 
much handsomer, and I knew he was a year 
or two younger, than herself. The exact cir- 
cumstances of their marriage I never learn- 
ed. It came x^robably from what I have 
heard called “ the force of propinquity,” for 
they must have been very unlike in every 
way. But they were thrown together, he 
having lodged at the house of her parents — 
he had quarreled with his own — during a 
long and dangerous illness. “ He could not 
do without me — so he married me,” she once 
said,' with a rather sad smile ; and this was 
the only explanation she ever gave, eA’^en to 
me, her daughter, of her courtship and mar- 
riage. 

In a year death ended the union, and she 
was alone again — more alone than before : 
for her parents had died also, and died bank- 
rupt. The few luxuries she had eA’^er enjoy- 
ed passed away; she had nothing to live 
upon but the two small pensions, hers and 
mine, as a soldier’s widow and orj)han ; and 
she had not a creature in the world belong- 
ing to her except me. 

This was all I knew of her and myself 
during my childhood and early girlhood. 
She never talked to me about the past; and 
the present was all-sufficient, of course, to a 
child. Consequently she learned to make it 
sufficient to herself. And this, I have since 
thought, constituted the great blessing I un- 
consciously was to her. In all her cares 
and afflictions she “ set me in the midst,” as 
Christ once set a little child ; and in my in- 
nocent ignorance, my implicit trust, my glo- 
rious forgetfulness of yesterday and indiffer- 
ence to to-morrow, I became to her truly 
“ of the kingdom of heaven.” As she told 
me long afterward, I comforted her more 
than she could have been comforted by any 
other living soul. 

So we were perfectly happy together, my 
mother and I. We lived in a world of our 
own — a wonderful world, full of love, con- 
tent, and enjoyment. That we were poor 
did not affect us in the least — poverty nev- 
er does much affect a child, unless prema- 
turely tainted by being brought up among 
worldly-minded elders. For instance, I have 
heard grown-up people recall the misery 
they once suffered from going to school less 
well di’essed than their school-mates ; but I 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


13 


can not remember such distresses ever trou- 
bling me. I was no more afflicted to see 
other girls in sashes while I had none than 
my mother was grieved by the fact that her 
gowns were of print or muslin when her 
friends wore silk and satin. I saw she al- 
ways dressed herself, as she dressed me, neat- 
ly, comfortably, as prettily and as much in 
the fashion as she could afford, and there 
the matter ended. What we could not af- 
ford we neither craved for nor mourned 
over. 

As I grew toward womanhood the great 
contest between us was who should have 
the best clothes : I wished it to be the moth- 
er, she would rather it had been the daugh- 
ter. Many a fond battle we had upon this 
point every time there were new clothes to 
be bought. I could not bear to see her go 
on wearing a shabby bonnet and give me a 
new one, or turn and turn her gowns to the 
last limits of respectability because I grew 
out of my frocks so fast that it was almost 
impossible to keep me well dressed, suitably 
dressed, which, it was easy to find out, she 
was most anxious to do. 

For I was her only child ; and, let me con- 
fess the fact, so familiar that I soon ceased 
to think it of importance, and, indeed, have 
forgotten when I first discovered it — I was 
an exceedingly pretty child. Not like her- 
self at all, but the very image of my father. 
Consequently as I grew up I became not 
merely pretty, but handsome ; beautiful, in 
short — at fifteen I believe I was downright 
beautiful — so that there could be no two 
opinions about me. 

Looking in my glass now, I take a pathetic 
pleasure in recalling this, and my dear moth- 
er’s pride and delight in the same, which she 
now and then attempted to hide, though she 
never tried to deny or conceal the obvious 
fact of my beauty — first, because it would 
have been impossible ; secondly, because she 
would have thought it foolish and wrong. 
She held beauty to be a gift of God, and, as 
such, to be neither ignored nor despised, but 
received thankfully, gladly — a real blessing, 
if regarded and accepted as such in all sim- 
plicity and humility. 

“ Mammy dear,” I remember once saying, 
as I ran into her arms, “am I not a very 
pretty little girl ? Every body says so.” 

“Yes, my darling, you are a very pretty 
little girl, and mammy is glad of it ; but she 
is most glad because you are good. Pretty 


little girls ought always to be exceedingly 
good.” 

This lesson she impressed upon me so 
strongly that I came to think even beauty a 
secondary thing, and many a comical story 
was preserved of my answers to my flatter- 
ers — children find only too many — “ Yes, of 
course I’m a pretty little girl, but Pm a good 
girl too.” “Mammy says pretty girls are 
plenty, and good girls scarce ; I mean to be 
a good girl,” etc., etc. Simple, silly speeches, 
no doubt, but they serve to show that I was 
not vain in any contemptible way. In truth, 
I was so accustomed to be praised, to look 
in the glass, and see there a face which could 
not fail to* give myself as much pleasure as 
it did to my friends, that I believe I accept- 
ed my beauty as calmly as people accept 
most things which they are born to — a title, 
an estate, or any other accidental appendage 
of fortune. I rejoiced in it, much as the 
lilies and roses do, without any ridiculous 
pride. 

My mother rejoiced too — in my eyes, which 
somebody told her were like a gazelle’s ; in 
my hair, purple-black and very long, whicli 
she always dressed herself with her own 
hands till I was a woman grown; in my 
slender willowy figure — I was tall, like my 
father, and at thirteen years old had over- 
topped herself entirely ; above all, in a cer- 
tain well-bred air, which I suppose I always 
had, for I have overheard people describe 
me as “ a most lady-like child.” This qual- 
ity might have been hereditary, but I my- 
self attribute it to my never having had any 
companionship except my mother’s. 

I did not understand then — I do now — 
why she was so exceedingly particular over 
my associates ; how many and many a little 
girl whom I wanted to play with I was gen- 
tly withdrawn from, lest I might catch th<‘ 
tone of that half-and-half “ genteel” society 
which, for a widow of limited income, is not 
easy to escape. Not until I grew up a wom- 
an did I fully comprehend how difficult it 
must have been for her to make me grow up 
really a lady, unharmed by the coarse influ- 
ences of poverty, not always refined poverty, 
which necessarily surrounded us on every 
side. She could not have done it, even 
though we lived as quietly as possible, first 
in London lodgings, where my father had 
died, and then in a school, where, in return 
for my instruction, she took charge of the 
whole seamstress work of the establishment 


14 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


— she could not possibly have done it, I say, 
had she not kept me continually by her 
side, and exposed to no influence except her 
own. 

And she was a lady. Ay, even though she 
was a tradesman’s daughter. But the fact 
that my grandfather, a builder, had been a 
self-made man, only enough educated to de- 
sire to educate his child, did not affect me 
in the least. My mother’s relations, the 
Dedmans, and my father’s, the Picardys, 
were to me equally mythical. I knew noth- 
ing about them, and cared less. 

She seldom spoke of either the persons or 
the incidents of her early life. She seemed 
to have been drifted out into the world, as 
Danae was drifted out to sea, with her baby 
in her arms, utterly uncertain on what shore 
she would be thrown, or if she would ever 
touch land at all. But, like Danae and Per- 
seus, we were cast upon a fi-iendly shore. 
Wherever we went, I remember, every body 
was kind to us. Perhaps it was the deep 
instinct of human nature, that inclines peo- 
ple always to be kind to the widow and or- 
phan ; but most probably it was my moth- 
er’s own sweet nature, and her remarkable 
mixture of gentleness and self-dependence, 
which made all whom she met ready to 
help her, because they saw she was willing, 
to the utmost of her capabilities, to help 
herself. 

I dare say she had her chances of marrying 
again, but of such a possibility she never 
dreamed. So we were just my mother and 
I,” a pair so completely one, and so content 
in each other, that beyond general kindliness 
we never cared much for any body outside. 
We had no visible relations, and not very 
many friends — intimate friends, I mean, ei- 
ther young or old, who would stand in my 
place toward her, or in hers toward me. It 
never struck me to put any playfellow in 
opposition to my mother j and she often said 
that ever since I was born she liked my 
company better than that of any grown-up 
person. 

So we wandered about the world togeth- 


er, changing our mode of life or place of res- 
idence as she deemed best both for my 
health, which was rather delicate, and for 
my education. It was always me, always 
for my advantage ; of herself and her own 
pleasure I do not believe she ever thought 
at all. And therefore her sorrows, whatever 
they were, brought no bitterness with them. 
She endured them till they passed by, and 
then she rose out of them to renewed life. 
She was to the end of her days the happiest- 
natured woman I ever knew, and the most 
cheerful of countenance. 

Describe her personally I will not — I can 
not ! Who ever could paint a mother’s face ? 
It seems, or ought to seem, unlike every oth- 
er face in the wide world. We have been 
familiar with it all our lives — from our cra- 
dle we have drank it in, so to speak, like 
mother’s milk, and looked up to it as we 
looked up to the sky, long before we under- 
stood what was beyond it — only feeling its 
beauty and soothing power. My mother’s 
face was like heaven to me, from the time 
when I lay in her lap, and sucked my thumb, 
with my eyes steadily fixed on hers, while 
she told me “ a ’tory,” until the day when I 
last stood and gazed down upon it, with its 
sweet shut mouth and sealed eyes : gazed — 
myself almost an old woman — wondering 
that it had suddenly grown so young. 

But many, many years, thank God ! before 
that day — ^years spent in peace and content, 
and no small share of happiness, since, as I 
have said, we were always happy merely in 
being together — occurred that strange time, 
that troubled six months, to which I have 
referred, and which even now makes my 
heart beat with a sensation which no length 
of time or change of fortunes has ever dead- 
ened, nor ever will deaden, until I cease to 
live. There is no pain in it now — not an 
atom of pain! no regret, no remorse — but 
there it is, an unalienable fact, an inefface- 
able impression. And it all happened twen- 
ty, thirty — no, I will not count how many 
years ago. I was just seventeen, and my 
mother was seven-and-forty. 




CHAPTER II. 


I HAD ^‘£ini8he4 my education,” or was 
supposed to have done so, though my moth- 
er often laughed, and said nobody’s educa- 
tion was ever “ finished.” Still, I had had 
all the masters that she could afford to give 
me, and further study was to he carried on 
by myself. We also left the school where 
we had resided so long, in the suburbs of 
London, and came to live in the country, 

all alone by ourselves,” as we said. For we 
two together was the same as being alone, 
only with the comfort of companionship. 

Our abode was a village in Somersetshire, 
whither we had come chiefly by chance. 
Like Adam and Eve, “ the world was all be- 
fore us where to choose,” and any place 
seemed pleasant after that horrid genteel 
neighborhood,” neither town nor country, 
with the advantages of neither and the un- 
pleasantness of both. At least so I thought 
in my hasty angry youth, which had such 
♦luick eyes .to see the dark shades in every 
picture. But my mother always answered 
gently that there might have been much 
worse places than Kilburn, and we had lived 
very peacefully there for five years. She 
always saw the sunny side of every thing, 
rather than the cloudy one. She was of a 
far more contented disposition than I. 

Still it was always I who started new and 
daring ideas, as I had done in this case. 
When we decided as to where we should 
make our new home, I had got out the maps 
and proposed laughingly that we should 
toss up a half-penny, and select the place on 
which it fell. It fell flat and prone on the 
town of Bath ! 

‘‘Bath? — how odd! were you not born 
there, mother ? Of course we’ll go and live 
at Bath.” 


“ Oh no, no !” she cried, suddenly ; then 
checked herself. “ Well, my child, if you 
wish it particularly, I see no reason why we 
should not go. There is nobody to go to, 
certainly ; I never had many relations, and 
those I had are long dead ; still, Bath is pret- 
ty, oh, so pretty ! You never saw any place 
at all like it, Elma and her eyes brighten- 
ed with a tender sort of memory in them. 

“ I should be delighted to see it, the home 
where you lived as a child and a girl, a 
grown-up girl like me. Also, mother dar- 
ling, was it not at Bath that you met my 
father, and were married ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Did papa like Bath as much as you ?” 

“ Not quite. He was ill there for many 
months, you know, and people seldom fancy 
the place where they are long ill.” 

“ But he fell in love with you there, and 
that ought to have made him like it.” 

I had just begun to have an idea that 
there was such a thing as “ falling in love,” 
and that of course it was the happiest thing 
in all the world. 

My mother was silent — so silent that I 
took her hand caressingly. 

“ I like sometimes to talk about my father. 
Was he not very handsome ? — And exceed- 
ingly like me ?” 

“You vain little monkey!” smiled my 
mother. 

And then I laughed too at the conceited 
speech I had unwittingly made. In our 
harmless fun the slight shadow which had 
come over my mother’s face passed away, 
and we continued our consultation — we 
never did any thing without consulting one 
another — but made no more references to 
the past. I saw she did not wish it. 


1 C 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


Nevertheless, things so happened that, in 
the first instance, we went from London to 
Bath just to gratify my curiosity. For three 
days we wandered about the city — the beau- 
tiful lady-city, of which my mother had not 
said one word too much 5 hut it was too beau- 
tiful, too expensive for our small finances. 
A little dreary, too, despite its beauty. We 
knew no one — not a soul ! and there were 
so many grand idle people walking about 
that the place felt far more lonely than Lon- 
don, where every body is busy. 

Also — it may seem a foolish, conceited 
thing to confess, and yet I must, for it is 
true — these idle people stared at us so, as if 
they had nothing to do hut to stare, and I 
resented it much. My mother answered my 
indignation with gentle composure. . 

“Idle folk will always stare, my child. 
Besides, you are taller and more remarkable- 
looking— well, perhaps prettier — ^than most 
girls ; and then you have such a very little, 
insignificant mother to walk beside you.” 

“ Nonsense !” I said ; for I thought her 
sweet face and dainty figure the pleasantest 
to look at in all the world. 

“ Come, don’t let us he cross ; let us take 
the stares patiently, and fancy ourselves the 
Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria, 
who have to endure the like whenever they 
go out, as well as the rest of the royal 
family.” 

“ But I am not one of the royal family.” 

“No, my child,” said my mother, half 
laughing, half sad ; “ hut Heaven has given 
you almost as trying a dignity. My poor 
Elma, people are sure to stare at you wher- 
ever you go ; hut we will avoid it as much 
as we can. What do you say ? Instead of 
remaining at Bath, which, indeed, we should 
find far too dear, suppose we were to try 
and find some pretty, quiet village near it — 
I remember several — and settle down there, 
where you will have nobody to look at you 
but the cows and sheep — except your moth- 
er ! Will she suffice, my pet ?” 

“ Yes, entirely.” 

And I spoke the truth. Odd as it may 
seem, my mother had done wisely in never 
denying facts as they were. Her fond, can- 
<lid admiration of me_aupplied the place of 
any other ; her frank admission of the fact 
of my beauty — a simple fact, no more — ab- 
solutely prevented my having any petty 
vanity about it. Just as children brought 
up without any mysteries make none, and 


those to whom the truth is always spoken 
can not see the slightest necessity for such 
a mean trick as lying. 

Besides this rather comical reason for our 
taking flight from Bath, my mother had an- 
other, which she did not then tell me. She 
wished to live in the country — in the health- 
iest place she could find. I had been study- 
ing hard, I was not strong, and the disease 
of which my father died — last of five broth- 
ers — was consumption. My mother had al- 
ways watched me, I told her sometimes, “ as 
a cat watches a mouse ;” but it was not till 
after-years that I found out the reason. 

Still, there was no sign of my father’s hav- 
ing left me, with his own strong likeness, 
this fatal inheritance. My mother had given 
me not only her moral but her physical qual- 
ities — a sound mind in a sound body. The 
wholesome Dedman blood, the blood of the 
people, counteracted all that might have 
been dangerous on my father’s side. From 
that, and from her careful ux3-bringing, I 
have, though never robust, enjoyed thor- 
oughly good health. No troubles have been 
able to kill me. I have lived — have been 
obliged to live — through them all. There 
have been times when I almost regretted 
this — when it would have been so much eas- 
ier to slip from life, and shirk all its duties ; 
when one fell back longingly upon the hea- 
then proverb that “those whom the gods 
love die young.” Not the Christian God! 
To Him the best sacrifice is not death, but 
a long useful, active, healthy life — reaping 
unto the last Christ’s benediction — that it 
is more blessed to give than to receive, to 
minister than to be ministered unto. 

The nest where my mother and I settled 
ourselves we found on our very first day of 
search. It was in a village a few miles from 
Bath — a small, old-fashioned house in an 
old-fashioned street, which sloped down in 
a steep descent to our door. Indeed, the 
whole neighborhood had a curious up-and- 
down-iness — very charming to me, who had 
grown sick of the long level Loudon pave- 
ments and suburban roads. 

Equally peculiar and attractive was the 
landlady, true Somersetshire, blunt in words, 
and kind in deeds, who insisted on our ac- 
cepting from her a lunch of bread and cheese, 
but declined point-blank to accept us as lodg- 
ers. She always had a family throughout 
the summer, she said — an excellent family 
from Bath — and she liked to be alone in the 


MY MOTPIER AND I. 


17 



winter, and until they came, which was nev- 
er before June. 

But it was now only January, and I had 
fallen in love with the quaint old house, and 
its quainter furniture, chiefly of oak, certain- 
ly a century old. Also, by a lucky chance, 
Mrs. Golding had fallen in love with my 
mother. 

Not with me. Oh dear, no ! She took 
the greatest pains to indicate how little she 
thought of me — considered me a mere chit 
of a girl, most objectionably pretty. 

‘‘ I don’t care to have good-looking misses 
about my place. They’re always such a 
bother. If it was only you, ma’am” — and 
she looked admiringly at my mother’s calm 
face and smooth gray hairs — she had been 
gray ever since I could remember. “ You’re 
a widow, I see ?” glancing at the modified 
form of widow’s cap which she always wore. 

“ Yes, I have been a widow ever since that 
girl of mine was born.” 

And — not overrich, I suppose, ma’am ?” 

^‘No/’ returned my mother, unofi'ended; 
B 


for it never occurred to her to feel the slight- 
est shame or annoyance on account of her 
poverty. 

“Then I think I’ll take you. You won’t 
be much trouble. Only your two selves ?” 

“ Only our two selves,” said my mother, 
putting her arm through mine, a good deal 
amused, but longing, like me, to take refuge 
in this quiet house, and with one who 
seemed, though odd, to be a good and kind- 
ly woman. “ I think, really, you had bet- 
ter take us. You must be rather dull all 
alone.” 

“No doubt, ma’am — no doubt. But I 
couldn’t take from you my usual rent — it 
wouldn’t be honest unless the summer-time. 
Let us see — what shall it be ? What would 
you like to give me ?” 

My mother laughingly declining to name 
a sum, this most extraordinary of landladies 
named one, which, compared with London 
prices, was perfectly ridiculous, and yet a 
great relief to our purse. But she declared 
it was the usual rate of payment for winter 


18 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


lodgings. We agreed, promising to turn 
out wlien the summer family arrived. 

“But that is live months to come. A 
great deal may happen in five mouths,” said 
my mother, half sighing. 

“Ay, indeed, ma’am; miss may he mar- 
ried by then; who knows? There is cer- 
tainly nobody about here to marry her. 
They’re all old maids in our parts. She 
won’t find one young gentleman, that I can 
tell her.” 

I blushed furiously, and felt so insulted 
that I would almost have walked out of the 
house on the spot, had not my mother said 
gently, with that quiet dignity which puts 
a stop to all possible forwardness, 

“We have not begun to think of these 
things yet, Mrs. Golding. My daughter is 
only seventeen.” 

“ Well, and I was only seventeen and a 
half when I maiTied, and a pretty mess I 
made of it. My face was my fortune, every 
body said — that was why poor Goldiug mar- 
ried me ; and it didn’t last” (no, certainly 
not, apparently) ; “ and he was an awful wor- 
rit, and that did last, and wore me to skin 
and bone, as you see. Well, well, he’s gone 
now, so we’ll say no more about him. Don’t 
yon believe in men, miss; don’t marry in 
haste and repent at leisure. That’s all I 
say-” ' . ... 

This melancholy sentiment — which the 
departed Goldiug, staring down from the 
wall in red face, blue coat, and yellow waist- 
coat, did not contradict — amused me so 
much that it cooled my wrath, and I 'made 
no objection to our finally settling the bar- 
gain, and agreeing to become Mrs. Golding’s 
inmates on the morrow. 

“ Only,” I said, when we talked over the 
matter, “ we shall have to keep her at a dis- 
tance, I am sure. She is a very impertinent 
woman.” • . 

“ Because she spoke about your marrying, 
my child ? Well, I suppose you will be mar- 
ried some day ;” and my mother put back my 
hair, and looked steadily into my blushing 
face. “Would you like to be married, Elma ? 
Yes, of course you would. It is a woman’s 
natural destiny. But there is plenty of 
time — plenty of time.” 

“ I should rather think so.” 

“ And when you do begin to take such a 
thing into your little head, be sure you tell 
your mother.” 

“ Of course I shall.” 


Here we dropped the matter, not unwill- 
ingly, I fancy, on either side. It was a topic 
quite new; at least this was the first time 
that my mother had named it at all seriously. 
For me, as a little girl, I had always protest- 
ed, like most little girls, that I meant to mar- 
ry my mother; afterward, that I would not 
marry at all, for fear of having to leave her. 
Latterly these protestations had ceased, for 
they seemed to me rather silly; besides, a 
kind of shyness had crept over me on the 
subject of love and mariiage. Not that I 
did not think of it ; on the contrary, I be- 
lieve I thought a great deal, but I said noth- 
ing. If I could have questioned my mother 
about her own experience — her own court- 
ship and marriage — it would have opened 
my heart ; but this was almost the only thing 
upon which she kept silence toward me, or 
if I attempted to speak, gently avoided the 
subject. 

She did so now. When I hazarded a ques- 
tion or two apropos of a small house in a 
back street of Bath, which she showed me 
in passing, s|%ying she had once lived there 
for a little while, she answered abruptly; 
and when we quitted the city — the fair city 
which I had already begun to be fond of — I 
think it was rather a relief to her than not. 

In a week’s time we felt,quite settled in 
our new home. It w'as such a pretty home, 
the prettiest we had ever had. The village 
was such a curious place, with' its ancient 
houses and gardens, shut in by high walls, 
its picturesque church, and its altogether 
old-world aspect, as if it had gone to sleep a 
century ago, and was only half awake still. 

We had one favorite walk, called the Ty- 
ning — a curious word, the meaning of which 
I never knew. But the walk was very pleas- 
ant : a kind of high path or natural bridge 
from hill to hill, sloping steeply down on ei- 
ther side. On one hand yon saw the distant 
uplands, on the other the valley below, with 
a little river winding through it, turning a 
gray old cloth-mill, which seemed the only 
manufacturing industry of the place. 

One day we crossed the Tyning, on our 
way to an old ruined abbey, which Mrs. Gold- 
ing said was one of the sights of the neigh- 
borhood. It was a bright, clear February 
day. I threw back my head, and eagerly 
drank in every breath of the pleasant bra- 
cing air. But it made my mother shiver. I 
placed myself on the windward side of her, 
1 and drew her arm through mine, as I had 


MY MOTHER AND L 


19 


always been in the habit of doing when we 
walked out, ever since I had discovered, with 
the pride of thirteen years, that I was half 
an ineh taller than she. She elung to me, I 
thought, a little closer than usual as we dis- 
cussed our summer plans. 

“We will be idle till March ; then we will 
study regularly. You must not let slip your 
education. You may need it yet.” 

She spoke with hesitation, knowing I knew 
quite well the possibility to whieh she re- 
ferred — that she might die prematurely, 
when her pension would' die with her, and 
mine was too small to maintain me. If I 
were left motherless, I should also have to 
earn my bread. But the first terror, if I 
ever did look at it, blotted the second out of 
sight entirely. 

“If you want me to make use of my edu- 
cation, I will do it,” said I, intentionally mis- 
apprehending her. “I will turn governess 
to-morrow, if you wish, though I should hate 
it — yes, hate it! And you always said it is 
the last kind of life I am fitted for.” 

“ That is true, my poor child.” 

I caught her sigh. I saw her sidelong 
anxious look. Only sinee I have been gliding 
down the hill, and watched so many young 
folks climbing up it, have I reeognized fully 
the meaning of my mother’s silent looks — 
her eeaseless prevision of a future that should 
last long after hers was ended — if indeed it 
had not ended long ago, her own individual- 
ity being entirely absorbed in this young life 
of mine. To be a mother is in truth entire- 
ly to forget one’s self — one’s personal inter- 
ests, griefs, and joys, and to project one’s self 
wholly into the new generation, with its won- 
derful present, its still more mysterious fu- 
ture, both of whieh seem apparently to lie in 
one’s own hands. Only apparently, perhaps ; 
and yet we have to act as if it were really so, 
as if the whole responsibility of her children’s 
lives rested upon the mother. Oh, that all 
mothers felt it thus I and when they do feel 
it, oh, if their children could now and then 
see into their hearts! 

I could not into my mother’s — not wholly, 
even though she was so dear to me and I to 
her. Now and then, as to-day, there seemed 
something on her mind which I did not un- 
derstand, something which she tried first to 
coueeal, then to shake off; and finally suc- 
ceeded. 

“ No, my darling, I do not wish you to turn 
governess, or any thing else, just now,” said 


she, gravely. “ I only wish you to grow up 
a well-educated gentlewoman, equal to any 
position which — But just now your posi- 
tion is to be your mother’s own dear, only 
daughter,” added she, suddenly stopping 
herself, “a sensible, clever — no, not very 
clever — ” 

Alas! that was true enough. I was not 
clever. Nor aceomplished, neither; for my 
wise mother, finding I had little voice and 
less ear, had stopped my musie ; my drawing 
also ha_d eome to an end ; since, to waste time 
on any study which requires real talent 
when one has absolutely none, she consid- 
ered simply ridiculous. 

“ No, you are certainly not a genius — you 
will never set the Thames on fire. But, 
whatever you are, I am content with you, 
my daughter.” 

“ Thank you,” replied I, humble, and yet 
proud. 

My mother never allowed me to ponder 
over either my merits or my short-comings. 
She said it was better just to do one’s work, 
and not think mueh about one’s self at all. 
Her satisfaction in me — not often thus plain- 
ly expressed — touched and pleased me, and 
I walked gayly, a weight lifted off my heart. 
I knew well I was in no sense a brilliant girl. 
My “faee was my fortune,” not my brains. 
This did not matter much now, though there 
came a time when I would have given half 
my beauty to possess just a little of what 
people call “talent.” So it is — we general- 
ly care most for the qualities which are not 
ours. 

However, just now I cared for nothing and 
nobody but my mother. She and I strolled 
on together, enjoying the spring smell in the 
air, and the colored twilight just beginning 
to lengthen, and the blackbird’s soft love- 
note — the first of the year — for it was near 
upon Valentine’s Day. Somehow or other 
we lost our way, and found ourselves not at 
the ruined abbey, but exaetly where we had 
started ; and it was too late to start again. 

“ Never mind, we will go there some other 
day” (ay, we did — I have never forgotten iliat 
day). “ Have we not the whole spring be- 
fore us ? And how delicious, mother, to think 
we have it all to ourselves ! No school — no 
lessons — no visitors. We literally don’tknow 
a soul between here and London. Hurrah ! 
How grand it is to have got no friends !” 

“But we may make some — I hope we 
shall.” 


20 


MY- MOTHER AND I. 


‘‘ 1 don’t. Because they will he falling in 
love with you and taking you from me ; and 
I like to have you all to myself, mammy !” 
(Big girl as I was, I often called her ‘‘mam- 
my,” or “ mummy,” or “ mimi” — some one of 
the half-hundred pretty names I used to in- 
vent for her when I was a hahy. But “ moth- 
er” was my favorite name. Lots of girls 
had “ mammas” — very few had a “ mother.” 
None, I averred, a mother like mine.) 

She laughed, and told me nobody was like- 
ly to dispute ray possession. “ Especially of 
such an elderly person as I am growing, for 
do you know, my child, though the evening 
is so pleasant, I feel quite tired and cold.” 

I blamed myself bitterly for having per- 
suaded her to put on a summer cloak — her 
winter one looked so shabby in the sunshine. 

“I protest, mother, you shall not go on 
a day longer without buying that Paisley 
shawl we have so long talked about, which 
will at once be light and warm. We’ll go to 
Bath after it to-morrow.” 

“Oh no, no!” Again her unaccountable 
shrinking from this pleasant city, which, as 
soon as I had left it, I quite longed to see 
again. 

“Well, mother darling, you shall not be 
vexed ; but the shawl must be got somehow, 
and Bath is the only place to get it at. Will 
you let me go and buy it all by myself?” 

The moment I had made this j^roposition 
I was frightened at it, for I had never yet 
walked a street’s length alone ; and as to go- 
ing shopping alone, the idea was dreadful. 
Yet, as I hurried my mother home, every 
shiver of hers made my conscience-stings 
sharper and my resolution more strong. 

“ I must learn to be useful, and do things 
sometimes by myself,” argued I. “ Only trust 
me I I will try to lose none of the money, 
and waste it you may be sure I shall not. 
And when I go into the shop I will not be 
nervous — not get angry if people do stare at 
me. Why should I not walk about alone ? 
There is nothing really to be afraid of.” 

“ No, my love ; and if you were obliged to 
do it — if I were away, and you had no pro- 
tection, I should wish you to do it — ^brave as 
a lion, innocent as a lamb. But you are not 
obliged. Wait a while, and we will choose 
the shawl together.” 

But I could not wait — not longer than the 
few days during which my mother was laid 
up with severe cold after this unlucky walk. 
Why had I not taken care that she was warm- 


ly clad before I let her buy me that gypsy hat 
with the checked pink ribbons (how one re- 
members individually one’s girlish clothes 
— at least, when they are not numerous !), 
and the brown silk pelisse, which had cost 
such a deal of money ? I hated it — I hated 
myself. I resolved to have not another new 
thing all summer, if only I could coax her to 
be extravagant in the matter of the Paisley 
shawl. Go to Bath I must — but how ? 

A bold idea struck me. “ Mother, Mrs. 
Golding is going to Batli to-morrow : may I 
go with her and buy your shawl ? She knows 
the shop, and she will take care of me.” 

And tlien, remembering the figure the old 
woman cut in her enormous bonnet, and 
cloak of most respectable antiquity, carrying 
a huge basket which went full of eggs and 
returned full of groceries, my mind misgave 
me. Certainly, to walk up Milsom Street 
beside Mrs. Golding would require some lit- 
tle moral courage. 

I think my mother guessed this, for she 
smiled. 

“ Have you considered — ” 

“ Yes, Pve considered every thing. What 
does it matter ? I’m not going to be a goose 
any more.” 

“ But to act on the principle of the man 
who, walking about in an old coat, said, ‘ If 
every body knows me, it’s all right ; if no- 
body knows me, it’s all right too.’ Well 
done, my child I” 

“ Then I may go ?” 

She hesitated ; but I was so urgent that 
at last I got my own way — as I did some- 
times now, when it was not actually a wrong 
way, but simply a question of feeling. I 
had come to that age, my mother said, when, 
in many things, she left me to judge for my- 
self. 

“ Well, I never I” cried Mrs. Golding, when - 
I broached the subject to her. “ Such a fine 
young lady as you wanting to go to Bath 
with an old woman like me ! And I sha’n’t 
walk either : my old legs can’t stand it this 
muddy weather. I meant fo take the carri- 
er’s cart.” 

This was a new perplexity. “ But in for 
a penny, in for a pound.” The shawl must 
be got, and this was the only way to get it. 
At once, too, that my mother might have it 
as soon as she was able to go out again. 

I smile now to remember, not without a 
strange sense of fatality, with what passion- 
ate persistence I stuck to my point, and car- 


Uiiil 







AT TUIS MOMENT Ul* GAME THE OAKBIER’s OABT.” 





MY MOTHER AND 1. 


23 


ried it. But it was not for myself, it was 
solely for her — my own dear mother — ^the 
centre of all my world. 

‘‘WeTl go, then, miss, if you can manage 
to he up in time, for the carrier passes at six 
in the morning,” said Mrs. Goldiug, rather* 
maliciously. “ And when you’ve been to 
market with me, I’ll go to Pulteney Street or 
Royal Crescent with you, and look at the fine 
folks promenading. That is, if you’re not 
ashamed to be seen with an old body who 
was once as young and bonny as yourself — 
though I say it.” 

Mrs. Golding’s prehistoric good looks were 
her weak point, and I did not want to hurt 
her feelings. The old woman had been very 
good to us ever since we arrived; So I had 
no alternative but to consent ; and my moth- 
er had none but to let me go. 

She dressed me, however, in my very sim- 
plest and plainest garments. “ It was evi- 
dent,” I told her, “ that she wished me to 
pass for Mrs. Golding’s granddaughter.” 

“ That would be difficult,” said she. And 
catching her face in the glass as she looked 
over my shoulder, fastening my collar be- 
hind, I saw her fond, proud smile— wholly 
a mother’s smile.. You girls, when you are 
mothers yourselves, and dress your own 
daughters, will understand it, and allow that 
no personal vanity .was ever half so pleasant. 

“ Now, then, turn round, child, and let me 
arrange your bonnet-strings. * How. untidy 
you are !” (Alas, I was: — a common failing 
at seventeen.) “ You might with advantage 
imitate that heat old woman — your supposed 
grandmother.” • - ’ . ..... 


“ Mrs. Golding ? Oh dear ! But tell me, 
what was my real grandmother — your moth- 
er — like?” 

I can not remember. You forget I was 
brought up by my step-mother.” 

‘‘ And my other grandparents on my fa- 
ther’s side ?” 

“ I do not know ; I never saw them,” re- 
plied my mother, hastily. “ Child, don’t for- 
get to buy new ribbons for your hair.” It 
W'as in long plaits, fastened round my head 
like a coronet, very j)retty to look at — I 
may say so now. 

My mother so evidently disliked the sub- 
ject that I ventured no other questions. 
Strangely enough, I had never asked any 
before, nor thought at all about my remote 
ancestors. We lived so entirely in the pres- 
ent, and our life, in its mild, monotonous 
current, was so full, that I never troubled 
myself about the past. I was not of a very 
imaginative temperament — besides, the fu- 
ture was every thing to me, as it generally 
is in our teens. 

At this moment up came the carrier’s cart. 
My mother kissed me tenderly — more ten- 
derly than usual, perhaps, it was so seldom 
I ever had left her for a whole day — put me 
gayly into that ignominious equipage, and I 
drove away. 

Had she seen, had I seen, that the driver 
was — not that funny old man in his volumi- 
nous capes, but Fate herself, sitting beside 
him and holding the reins ! But no ; had I 
foreknown all, it would have been — with 
my clear-eyed will it should have been — ex- 
actly the same. 







CHAPTER III. 



I THOUGHT in my girlhood — I think still 
— that Bath is one of the most beautiful 
cities in the world. Florence, they say, is 
something like it; but I have never seen 
Florence, and I love Bath, with that fond, 
half-sad sort of love which hangs about 
particular places, making them seem to us, 
all our days, unlike any other places in the 
wide world. 

During onr short stay there I had not seen 
half its beauties, for my mother seemed un- 
willing to go about more than she was 
obliged, and it was winter weather; but 
now as we crept slowly along the high Cla- 
verton Eoad, and looked down on the valley 
below, where the river and the canal mean- 
dered, side by side, and in and out, glitter- 


ing in the morning sunshine ; then coming 
suddenly upon it, I saw the white city, ter- 
races, crescents, circuses, streets, one above 
the other, rising up almost to the top of 
Lansdowu Hill — I could not helji exclaim- 
ing, How beautiful !’’ 

Mrs. Golding, being a Somersetshire wom- 
an, looked pleased. She made the carrier 
stop his jolting cart for a minute or two that 
I might get a better view. 

‘^Yes, Bath is a nice place, and there’s 
some nice folks in it — to make amends for 
the nasty ones.” 

“ Who are they ?” I inquired. 

‘‘ Card-xdayers and ball-goers, and world- 
lings generally,” answered Mrs. Golding. 
“But they’re nothing to you, miss, or me 
either. And there are good folks besides — 
though they’re not many.” 

I was silent. We had alreadj^ discovered 
that Mrs. Golding belonged to a peculiar 
sect, called Plymouth Brethren, wliich had 
lately risen u}) in the West of England. My 
mother did not agree with them in their 
opinions; but she told me that many of 
them were very good people, and that I 
must never smile at Mrs. Golding and her 
extraordinary forms of speech, as if she and 
her “brethren” were the only children of 
the Almighty Father, the only receptacles 
of eternal truth, and accex)ters of what they 
called “ salvation.” 

So I forgave her for holding forth a little 
too harshly on the wickedness of the world, 
which to me seemed not a wicked world at 
all, but most beautiful and enjoyable ; for- 
gave her, too, for keeping me out of the live- 
ly streets — ^Milsom Street, Gay Street, Quiet 
Street, such quaint names! Patiently I fol- 
lowed her into the narrow and dirty regions 









MY MOTHER AND I. 


27 


at the hottom of the town, where she trans- 
acted her business, selling and buying alter-, 
nately, but always contriving to keep one 
eye upon her basket and the other upon me. 

Little need was there. Nobody looked at 
me. In this busy quarter of the city every 
body was occupied with his or her own af- 
fairs. I felt, with some amusement and per- 
haps a shade of annoyance, that I was being 
taken for the old woman’s granddaughter 
after all. 

Well, what did it matter? Like the Miller 
of Dee — 

“I cared for nobody, and nobody cared for me,” 

except my mother — only and always my 
mother. , 

It was very dull going about without her, 
we were so seldom apart. So as soon as 
Mrs. Golding had done her business, I sug- 
gested mine — the shawl, and insisted on 
getting it at the very best shop in Bath. 

Must I confess that, even as an elderly 
lady, I rather like shopping ? Even when 
I do not buy, the sight of the pretty things 
pleases me, as it did in the days when I 
could not afford to buy ; when rich silks and 
dainty muslins were tantalizing impossibili- 
ties, and my mother and I looked at them 
and shook our heads with a resolute smile, 
but still a smile. What was there to sigh 
over ? We never had to go in rags, or even 
threadbare, like some people. And when 
we did enter a shop, money in hand, to 
clothe ourselves as elegantly and fashion- 
ably as we could afford, how we did enjoy 
it! Much more, I think, than those who 
have not to pick and choose, but can buy 
all they fancy without considering the cost. 
And then our buying had one remarkable 
feature, which we regarded essential — 

, though I have found since that every body, 
does not so regard it— we always paid. 

I took care to let the shop-man see my full 
purse, and was counting my money rather 
too ostentatiously, and of course awkward- 
ly, when it tumbled down,- and one half sov- 
ereign rolled right at the feet of an old gen- 
tleman who was just then entering the shop. 

He stooped and picked it up, though he 
was rather infirm, but politeness seemed an 
instinct with him ; then looking round, he 
offered the coin to me, with a half smile and 
a bow. 

I bowed too, and said thank you,” rather 
gratefully, for I thought it a kind thing for | 


an old man to do. But if old, his figure was 
upright still, and soldierly looking. It made 
me look at him a second time : my father 
had been a soldier. 

He looked at me too, not as young men 
sometimes looked, with rude admiration, but 
very intently, as if he thought he knew me, 
and had half a mind to speak to me. But 
as I did not know him in the least, I quietly 
turned away, and gave all my mind to the 
purchase of the shawl. 

I have it still, that dear old shawl, old and 
worn, but pretty still. Often I regard it 
with a curious feeling, remembering the day 
I bought it. What a struggle the buying 
cost me ! a battle first against Mrs. Golding, 
who wanted a bright scarlet centre, whereas 
this one was white, with a gray “ pine-apple” 
border, and then against myself, for my 
mother had given me only three pounds, and 
its price was three guineas, and I had to 
borrow. 

“Yet it is so lovely, so quiet and lady- 
like, just after my mother’s own taste ! She 
would be sure to like it, only she would say 
it was too dear.” 

“ Not a bit dear : good things are always 
cheap,” said re-assuring Mrs. Golding, press- 
ing the three shillings upon me rather bois- 
terously. 

. To escape — for I saw the old gentleman 
was watching us and our dispute — (proba- 
bly he had nothing better to do) — I took the 
money, at which I fancied he smiled. 

Perhaps he had heard all that passed : 
well, what harm ? Supposing he did over- 
hear, he could learn nothing except that my 
mother was poor and careful, with lady-like 
tastes, and that I liked to please her if pos- 
sible. Nevertheless, his observant eye vexed 
me, and I turned my back upon him until wo 
went out of the shop. 

However, there was great consolation in 
thinking of the beautiful shawl. How nice 
my motlier would look in it, and how warm 
it would be ! 

“ And a real Paisley shawl is never out 
of fashion,” added Mrs. Golding, encoura- 
gingly ; then drew down the corners of her 
mouth, saying “fashion was a snare.” 

Very likely ; and yet I should have en- 
joyed being dressed like those young ladies 
I saw walking up and down Milsom Street 
in the sunshine. Pleasant as it had been to 
admire the grand shops in the Corridor and 
elsewhere, it would have been pleasanter 


28 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


still to be able to go in and buy there what- 
ever I chose. There were scores of pretty 
things which I longed to take home with 
me, for myself or my mother, and could only 
stare at through the tantalizing glass ];)anes. 
It was a little hard. 

Another thing was harder. In spite of 
Mrs. Golding, who made the fiercest duenna 
possible, the passers-by did stare at me ; idle 
loungers, who no doubt thought it great fun 
to inspect a new face, and all the more so 
because it was under a plain cottage bonnet, 
and had no protector but an old woman. I 
With a man beside me, a father or a brother, 
no one would have dared to stare ; and if 
instead of walking I had been driving, it 
would have been altogether different. Then 
these young men would have recognized my 
position, and paid me the same respectful 
attentions that they offered to other young 
ladies, to whom I saw them talk and bow, 
courteous and reverential, while to me — 

Was it my lowly condition that exposed 
me to this rude gaze, or only my beauty ? but 
I hated my beauty since it caused me such 
humiliation. My cheeks burning, my heart 
full of angry resentment, I hurried on through 
the crowded streets, Mrs. Golding trotting 
after me as fast as she could. 

Where are you going?’’ she pettishly 
said at last. “ What on earth is the matter 
with you ?” 

It was useless to explain, and indeed I 
hardly knew myself, so I merely replied that 
I was tired, and proposed that we should go 
and sit down in the quietest xdace we could 
find. 

“ That will be Marlborough Fields, if you 
don’t mind the cows. People say some of 
these days there’s going to bo a grand j)ark 
made there for the fine folk to walk in, just 
as they now walk uj) and down Royal Cres- 
cent. You’ll want to go and see them ? Of 
course, all you young folk do like the vani- 
ties of the world.” 

Perhaps old folks too ; for though I pro- 
tested against it, Mrs. Golding, shaking her 
head in a solemn, incredulous way, took me 
right into the then fashionable promenade. 
The high, broad walk in front of the Cres- 
cent houses was as full as it could hold of 
gayly dressed people, walking up and down, 
and conversing together, for every body 
seemed to know every body. There were 
no carriages, but there was a good sprink- 
ling of sedan-chairs, in which the old and 


infirm went about. Some of them were pit- 
iful spectacles, in their apparent struggle 
agaiust remorseless age, sickness, decay ; 
their frantic clinging to that poor, feeble 
life, which could no longer be to them either 
a i^leasant or desirable thing. 

It made me sad — me to whom, in my 
strong, fresh youth, life seemed eternal. I 
looked upon these j)Oor creatures as if their 
melancholy lot could never concern me, and 
yet it weighed me down, and I was glad to 
get out of the crowd into a foot-jiath lead- 
ing to the Weston Road. There, in a quiet 
nook, some kind soul had put up under a 
shady tree a comfortable seat, where w'e sat 
down, and Mrs. Golding took out a huge 
X)arcel of provisions: a most ungeuteel re- 
X)ast, and I was horrified at it, hungry as I 
felt ; but there was no use in objecting ; and, 
besides, we were quite out of every body’s 
way, the grand people confining themselves 
entirely to their walk up and down the Cres- 
cent, where they could see and be seen x>rox)- 
erly. 

So we sat quiet and alone. Nothing 
j)assed us save one carriage — a very fiu'e one 
— driving slowly toward Weston. 

“ Bless us !” cried Mrs. Golding, indignant- 
ly, “how stuck-up the world is growing! 
In my time there were only four carriages 
in Bath, and only the very rich x)Coi)le thought 
of such a thing.” 

“ Probably the owner of that one is a rich 
person,” said I, carelessly ; but I followed it 
with my eyes, for I was very tired, and I 
thought how nice it would be to be driving 
leisurely home instead of waiting about here 
for an hour, and then being jolted back in 
that horrid carrier’s cart. 

These half-sad, half-envious musiugs must 
have lasted some minutes, for Mrs. Golding, 
having eaten and drunk her fill, leaned her 
head back against the tree in a delicious 
doze. The same carriage drove past again, 
aud, stopping a little way off, the footman 
hel^ied out its only occupant, an elderly gen- 
tleman, who, after walking feebly a turn or 
two in the sunshine, came toward the bench, 
much exhausted, though evidently striving 
hard against his weakness, and holding him- 
self as upright as he could. Then I per- 
ceived he was the same old gentleman who 
had jiicked up my half sovereign for me in 
the shop. 

Glad to return civility for civility, I made 
room for him, squeezing myself close up to 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


29 


Mrs. Golding — a politeness 'wliicli jhe jnst 
acknowledged, without looking at me, sat 
down, quite exhausted, and closed his eyes. 

What a contrast it was — the sleepy half- 
life of these two old people, one on either 
side of me, with that strong, vivid, youth- 
ful life of mine, full of such an endless ca- 
pacity for pleasure and pain ! Would it 


an old man for addressing a strange lady ; 
hut I really think I must somewhere or 
other have had the pleasure of meeting 
you.” 

I shook my head, smiling. 

‘‘Pardon, then, a thousand times. Yon, 
young lady, may make a blunder sometimes 
when you are seventy-three years old.” 



ever dwindle down to this ? Should I ever 
be like them ? It seemed impossible. 

Mrs. Golding’s eyes were still peacefully 
shut; but the old gentleman opened his, 
and, seeing me, gave a start. 

“ I beg pardon ; I am sure I have seen you 
before — yes, yes, now I recollect. Excuse 
me.” And he took his hat off, clear off, from 
his reverend white head. “ You will pardon 


I said I made blunders now, and I was 
only seventeen. 

“ Only seventeen ! You look older. But 
perhaps you are the eldest of a large fami- 
ly?” 

“Oh no! We are only two — just my 
mother and I.” 

“ A most fortunate pair,” said he, bowing, 
but asked no further personal questions. 


30 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


And indeed, tliougli we immediately began 
talking, and talked straight on, upon all 
sorts of subjects, for a full half hour, he nev- 
er made the slightest ajjproach to any topic 
that could imply any curiosity about me or 
my affairs. He was equally reticent about 
himself, keeping punctiliously to the cau- 
tious, neutral ground of pleasant generali- 
ties — a characteristic, I often think, of well- 
bred XJeople, and which constitutes the charm 
of their society ; just as the secret of true 
politeness consists in one thing — unselfish- 
ness; or, as the Bible puts it, “esteeming 
others better than themselves.” 

In my short, shut-up life I had seen few 
men, fewer gentlemen ; none, indeed, to com- 
pare with the characters in my books — Sir 
Charles Grandison, the Waverley heroes, and 
even those of Miss Austin, whom I less ap- 
proved, for they were so like every body else, 
and I wanted somebody quite different. Now 
this old gentleman was certainly different 
from any one I had ever seen, and I admired 
him exceedingly. 

Nor, recalling him, do I wonder at my ad- 
miration, sudden as it was. The fine old 
head, with its aquiline features, the erect, 
soldierly bearing, the dignified and yet gen- 
tle manners — as courteous to a mere “slip 
of a girl” as if she had been a duchess — the 
blandly toned voice, and easy flow of con- 
versation, belonging to the period when con- 
versation was really held as a fine art, and 
no flij)paucy or slang was tolerated. I had 
never seen any one to equal him. Above 
all, I was struck by his wonderful tact — the 
faculty of drawing one out, of making one at 
ease with one’s self, so that one unfolded as 
naturally as a flower in sunshine : which 
quality, when the old possess, and will take 
the trouble to use it, makes them to the 
young the most charming companions in 
the world. 

I was deeply fascinated. I forgot how 
the time was slipping on, and my mother 
sitting waiting for me at home, while I was 
enjoying myself without her, talking to a 
gentleman whom I had, never set eyes' on 
before to-day, and of whose name and cir- 
cumstances I was as utterly ignorant as he 
-was; of mine. : - 

The shadows lengthened, the soft rosy 
twilight began to fade, and the thrush’s 
long evening note was heard once or twice 
from a tall tree. 

“ Spring come again !” said the old gentle- 


! man, with a slight sigh. “The days are 
' lengthening already ; it is five o’clock,” and 
he looked at his watch, a splendid old-fash- 
ioned one, with a large P in diamonds on 
the back. “ My carriage will be up directly. 
I always dine at six, and dislike being un- 
punctual, though I have no ladies to attract 
me homeward, no fair faces to brighten my 
poor board. Alas ! I have neither daughters 
nor granddaughters.” 

A wife, though, he must have had ; for 
there was a thin wedding-ring on the little 
finger of his left hand, which it fitted exact- 
ly, his hands being remarkably small and 
delicate for such a tall man. I always no- 
ticed people’s hands, for my mother had told 
me mine were rather peculiar, being the ex- 
act copy of my father’s, with long thin fin- 
gers and almond-shaped nails. This old gen- 
tleman’s were, I fancied, rather like them, at 
least after the same sort of type. 

“You have no granddaughters! What a 
pity I Would you have liked to have some?” 

And then I blushed at this all but rude 
question, the more so as he started, and a 
faint color came into his cheek also, old as 
he was. 

“ Pardon me : I did not mean exactly that 
— that — But why should I dilate on my 
own affairs ? She is having a good long doze 
al fresco, this worthy nurse of yours.” (Then 
he at least had not concluded Mrs. Golding 
to be my grandmother.) 

“ Yes ; I suppose she is tired. We ought 
to be going home. My mother will be so 
dull : I have hardly ever left her for a whole 
day alone.” 

, “ Is your mother like you ? Or, rather, are 
you like your mother ?” 

This was the only question he had put 
that could at all be considered personal; and 
he put it very courteously, though examin- 
ing my face with keen observation the while. 

“ I, like my mother ? Oh no ; it is my fa- 
ther I take after. Though I never saw him; 

. I.was a baby when he died. But my moth- 
er — I only wish I were like her ; so good, so 
.sweet, so — every thing! There never was 
her equal in the wdiole world.” 

The old gentleman smiled. 

“I dare say she thinks the same of her 
daughter. It is a way women have. Never 
mind, my dear; I am not laughing pt your 
happy enthusiasm. It will soon cool down.” 

“ I hope I shall never cool down into not 
admiring my mother !” said I, indignantly. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 31 


“No, of course. Mothers are an admira- 
ble institution, much more so than fathers 
sometimes. But your nurse is waking up. 
Good-afternoon, madam.” He was of the old 
school, who did not think politeness wasted 
on any thing in the shape of a woman. 
“ Your young lady and I have been having 
such a pleasant little conversation !” 

“Indeed, Sir!” said my duenna, bristling 
up at once, but smoothing down her ruffled 
feathers when she perceived it was quite an 
old gentleman, a real gentleman too, who 
had been talking to me. “ But it’s time we 
were moving home. Are you rested, now, 
Miss Picardy ?” . . . ' 

The old man started, violently. 

“ What did you say ? What is her name ?” 
His eagerness, even excitement, put Mrs. 
Golding on the defensive at once. 

“ I can’t see. Sir, that a strange young 
lady’s name is any business of yours. Y ou’ve 
never seen her before to-day, and you cer- 
tainly won’t after; so I’m not *a-goiug to 
answer any of your questions. Come, my 
dear.” ‘ ' ' ' 

But the old gentleman had fixed his eyes 
on me, examining me intently, and almost 
shaking with agitation. ‘ ' ‘ 

“ I beg pardon,” he said, turning to Mrs. 
Golding, with an evident effort ; “ you are 
quite right — quite right ; but, in this one 
instance, if you would allow' me to know 
her name — ” . 

“No, I won’t; and you ought to be 
ashamed of yourself for asking it,” cried my 
angry protectress, as she tucked me' under 
her arm, and marched me off; for, of course, 
resistance on my part would have been ri- 
diculous. ■ ' 


Presently I ventured a remonstrance, but 
was stopped at once — 

“You don’t know Bath ways, my dear. 
Wait till you get home, and then tell your 
mother.” 

“ Of course I shall tell my mother. But 
it was a shame to be rude to such a kind old 
gentleman — the most charming old gentle- 
man I ever saw.” 

“Very well. Charming or not charming, 
I’ve done my duty.” 

And she hurried me on, till, just stopping 
to breathe at the corner of Royal Crescent, 
there overtook us a gray-headed man, who 
looked like an old family servant. He 
touched his hat respectfully. 

“Beg pardon, but I believe you are the 
young lady who was sitting beside my mas- 
ter in Marlborough Fields ? He desired me 
to go after you, and give you this card.” 

Mrs. Golding extended her hand. 

“No, no; I was told to give it to the 
young lady herself. All right. Good-after- 
noon/miss.” 

He too ‘ looked keenly in niy fiice, and 
started even as his master had done. 

“ Lord bless us ! The saints be about us !” 
I heard him* mutter to himself. 

But he was evidently an old soldier like- 
wise, who simply obeyed -orders, asking no 
questions; so he touched his hat again, and 
walked back as fast as he could. • • 

' I took the card— an ordinary visiting-card 
'—with a name and address printed thereon; 
a second address, “Royal Crescent, Bath,” 
being hurriedly written in pencil;' But the 
name, when ~P made it biit, caused me to 
start in intense astonishment. It was — 
Lieutenant-General ^Ficai'dy.’’ ^ ^ 







* ^ • 


* 






CHAPTER IV. 


As was natural, during tlie whole drive 
home in that horrid shaky carriei'’8 cart, I 
thought of little else than the card in my 
pocket. I had put it there at once, without 
showing it to Mrs. Golding, who saw I was 
offended with her, and perhaps recognized 
that I had some reason to he. But in no 
case should I have discussed the matter with 
her. I was very proud in those days, and 
had no notion of being confidential with my 
inferiors. 

Besides, it might possibly concern us — our 
own private affairs. The name, Picardy, 
was such a very peculiar one that this 
stranger might turn out to he some relative 
of ours. What relative ? Little as I knew 
about my father, I did know that he had 
died the last of his race — so it could not he 
his elder brother. Perhaps an uncle ? Or 
possibly — no, it was too much to expect ! — it 
would be too like a bit out of a book, and a 
very romantic book indeed — that this most 
interesting old gentleman should turn out 
to be my grandfather. 

Yet I clung to the fancy, and to a hundred 
fancies more, until, by the time we reached 
home, I had worked myself up into a condi- 
tion of strong excitement. 

It was already dark, bnt I saw my moth- 
er’s figure against the blind, and her hand 
put forward to draw it and look out, as she 
caught the first rattle of the cart wheels 
down the street. In a minute more I had 
leaped out, and come face to face with her 
dear little figure standing at the door, the 
calm eyes fining upon mo — no, shining np 
at me, for I was so tall — and the cheerful 
voice saying, in that pecnliarly soft tone 
which rings in my ears even now when I 
am sad and alone, ‘‘Well, my child?” 


A sudden thrill went through me. For 
the first time in my life I knew something 
which my mother did not know ; I had a 
strong interest in which she possibly might 
not share. For the Picardy name was hers, 
but the Picardy blood was wholly mine. 

^‘Well, my child, and have you had a 
pleasant day ?” 

I could not answer immediately. She 
saw, quick as lightning, that things were 
not all right with me, and perhaps imagin- 
ing I had been annoyed by some difliculty 
concerning Mrs. Golding, bade me not tell 
her a single thing that had happened until I 
had taken off my bonnet, and had some tea. 

“ Then you will be rested, and can unfold 
to mo all your adventures.” 

Adventures, indeed ! Little she know ! 
And some instinct made me put off, minute 
after minute, telling her the strange thing 
which had befallen me. 

“But you have really enjoyed yourself, 
my darling,” said my mother, anxiously, as 
she folded up my pelisse, for I was so bewil- 
dered that I did less for myself than usual. 

“ Oh yes, very much. And I have bought 
your shawl — such a beautiful shawl ! Shall 
we look at it now ?” 

“ Not till after you have had some tea, my 
child. How tired you look ! Are you sure 
you are quite well ?” 

“ Oh yes ! But, mother darling, something 
has happened — something so strange ! Look 
here : an old gentleman gave me this card — 
such a charming old gentleman, who sat be- 
side me on a bench and talked to me, and I 
talked to him. It was not wrong, was it ?” 

“ No, no,” said my mother, hurriedly, try- 
ing in vain to decipher the card by the dim 
candle-light. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


33 


And ■when we left him, he wanted to 
hnow my name, and Mrs. Golding was so 
cross, and refused to give it — so he sent his 
man after us with this card. Look, is it not 
strange ? It is our name, our very own name, 
‘ Lieutenant-General Picardy.’ ” 

My mother sunk on a chair, deadly jiale. 
“ Ah, I knew it would come, some day. My 
chiJd, my own only child!” 

She flung her arms about me, and hurst 
out weeping as I had never seen her weep 
before. 

When she recovered herself I had put the 
card away, but she asked me for it, and ex- 
amined it carefully. 

“ Yes, it must be General Picardy himself. 
I did not know ho lived at Bath ; indeed, I 
doubted if he were living at all. I have not 
heard of him for so many years.” 

“ But, mother, who is General Picardy ?” 

“ Your grandfather.” 

I too sank down on a chair, shaking all 
over with agitation. It was such a surprise. 
A painful surprise too, for it implied that 
my mother had had secrets from me — secrets 
kept for years. 

“ And you never told me ? Surely I was 
old enough to know something about my 
own grandfather, whom I always supposed 
to be dead.” 

‘‘I never said so. But still I thought it 
ni )st probable, since if alive he must have 
been keeping silence and enmity against me 
for seventeen years.” 

“Enmity against you, my own best, dear- 
est mother! Then I will throw his card 
into the fire, and never think of him again.” 

She stopped my hand. “ No — he is your 
grandfather, your father’s father, and the 
nearest relation, after me, that you have in 
the world. Let us talk about him quietly 
by-and-by. Come down to tea now, Elma, 
my child. You know,” with a faint strug- 
gle at a smile, “ you always say, if the world 
were coming to an end, mother must have 
her tea.” I laughed, and my momentary 
wrath, first against her, and then against 
him, passed away. It seems strange, but I 
was prone to these outbursts of passion when 
I was a girl, though they never lasted long. 
They never come now at all. Sometimes I 
could almost wish they did, if I had my 
mother there to soothe them. 

“And after tea, mother, you will tell me 
every thing ?” 

“Yes. I would have told you long ago, 
C 


but it was a i)ainful story, and one that I 
thought could not possibly signify to your 
future, or atfect your happiness in any way. 
Perhaps I judged wrong.” 

“ Oh no, you were right, you always are,” 
cried I, impulsively ; and when I heard the 
story, my reason seconded this conviction. 

But first my mother made me tell her my 
adventure, which I did, concealing nothing, 
not even my ardent admiration of the old 
gentleman who was my grandfather — the 
first real gentleman, I declared, that I had 
ever seen. 

“Yes, I believe he is that,” sighed my 
mother. “ So was your father — so were all 
the family. It is a very old and honorable 
family.” 

“ I am glad.” 

Yes ; I was glad, and proud also. I look- 
ed down on my hands, my pretty hands, 
then up at my face, where in the old crack- 
ed mirror I saw an image — was it not a soft- 
ened kind of imago of that stern old face, 
wdth the aquiline nose, firm close mouth, 
and brilliant eyes ? Ay, undoubtedly I was 
a Picardy. 

My mother, if she noticed me, said noth- 
ing, but only made me sit down on the 
hearth-rug at her feet, with my arm across 
her lap, and her soft hands stroking my hair 
— our favorite position when we had a talk. 
Then^ she began telling me the story of the 
past. 

A sad story, though I could see that she 
intentionally made it as little so as possible. 
Still, any body with ordinary perceptions 
must have felt sure that there had been 
many painful bits in it, though she glossed 
them over, and did not dwell upon them. 

In the first place, my father’s marriage 
with her had evidently been considered by 
his father a disgraceful mesalliance ; for he 
refused to see him, and would have disin- 
herited him, only the property was entailed. 
Entailed, however, strictly in the male lino, 
and I was a daughter ! My birth, which my 
father had reckoned on as a means of recon- 
ciliation, disappointed him so excessively 
that he, in his turn, declared he would not 
look at me, and died a month afterward. 

Whether in their brief married life he had 
been to my mother kiud or unkind — wheth- 
er his own untrueness had brought about 
its natural results (for he had persuaded her 
that his father had no objection to their un- 
ion), whether he came to blame her for hav- 


34 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


ing believed in him, to reproach her for hav- 
ing loved him, and loved him, too, when he 
was an utter wreck in health and fortune — 
if things were thus or not I can not tell. 
She did not tell me. She certainly did not 
praise my father, but she never blamed him; 
and when I began to blame him she laid her 
hand on my lips, as if to say that, after all, 
he was my father. 

But my grandfather I was free to criticise 
if I chose, and I did it pretty sharply too. 
He, a poor soldier, to insult my mother by 
accusing her of “ catching’’ my father, when 
she could get nothing by it, not even money, 
for the family estate did not fall in till after 
they were married, and it was her father 
they lived upon — her father, the tradesman, 
who, however uneducated, had been an hon- 
est, independent man, and had educated his 
child and made her a lady — quite as much 
a lady as her husband was a gentleman. 

So thought I, and said it too, as far as I 
dared ; but my mother always stopped me, 
and confined herself to strictly relating the 
facts of the case. 

When she was a widow, and my grand- 
father was living, solitary and childless, at 
his newly gained estate, she thought there 
might be some relenting, at any rate toward 
me ; but there was none. Her letter remain- 
ed long unanswered, and then there came 
one from the family lawyer, saying that if 
Miss Picardy — that was myself — were sent 
to the General at once, she would be received 
and adopted, on condition that her mother 
renounced all claim to her, and never saw 
her again. 

“And what did you say?” I exclaimed, in 
passionate indignation. 

“ I said that my child was my child — that 
I would neither renounce her nor connive 
at her renouncing me so long as I lived. 
But that after I was dead — and I thought 
then that my life would be short — she would 
belong legally to General Picardy, and I 
would leave orders for her to be sent to him 
immediately.” 

“That was wrong.” 

“ No ; it was right,” returned my mother, 
slowly and softly. “For my own parents 
were dead, I had no near kindred, and if I 
had. General Picardy was as near, or nearer. 
Besides, though hard to me, I knew him to 
have been always a just, honorable, upright 
man ; a man to be trusted ; and whom else 
could I trust? I was quite alone in the 


world, and I might die any day — I often 
thought I should.” 

“ My darling mother !” 

“ Yes ; it was rather hard to bear,” she 
said, with a quivering lip. “ To feel as ill 
as I often felt then, and to know that my 
own frail life was the sole barricade my 
baby had against the harsh world — my poor 
little helpless baby — my almost more help- 
less little girl, who was growing up head- 
strong, self-willed, yet so passionately lov- 
ing! No wonder I seized upon the only 
chance I had for your safety after I was 
gone. I told General Picardy that all I 
asked of him was to educate you, so as to 
be able to earn your own living — that he 
need not even acknowledge you as his 
granddaughter — his heiress you could not 
be, for I knew the property passed to a dis- 
tant cousin. But I entreated him to bring 
you up so as to be a good woman, an edu- 
cated woman, and then leave you to fight 
your own battle, my poor child !” 

“ But I have had no need to fight it. My 
mother has fought it for me.” 

“ Yes, so far. Are you satisfied ?” 

“I should think so, indeed! And now, 
mother, I shall fight for you.” 

She smiled, and said “there was no 
need.” Then she explained that having 
always in view this possibility of my being 
sent to my grandfather and brought up by 
him, she had never said a word to me of 
his unkindness to herself; indeed, she had 
thought it wisest to keep total silence with 
regard to him, since if I once began ques- 
tioning, it would have been so difficult to 
tell half-truths, and full explanations were 
impossible to a child. 

“ But now, Elma, you are no child. You 
can judge between right and wrong. You 
can see there is a great difference between 
avoiding a bad man and keeping a dignified 
silence toward a good man who unfortunate- 
ly has misjudged one, under circumstances 
when one has no power to set one’s self right. 
Understand me, though I have kept aloof 
from him, I have never hated your grand- 
father. Nor do I now forbid you to love 
him.” 

“ Oh, mother, mother !” 

I clung to her neck. Simply as she had 
told her story, as if her own conduct therein 
had been the most ordinary possible, I must 
have been blind and stupid not to perceive 
that it was any thing but ordinary, that very 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


few women would have acted with such 
wisdom, such self-abnegation, such exceed- 
ing generosity. 

“You don’t blame me, then, child, for keep- 
ing you to myself? I was not keeping you 
to poverty — we had enough to live upon, 
and, with care, to educate you fit for any 
position which you might hereafter be call- 
ed to fill, so that General Picardy need nev- 
er be ashamed of his granddaughter. For 
all else, could any thing have made up to 
my girl for the want of her mother V’ 

“ Nothing — nothing ! Oh, what you have 
gone through, and for me, too !” 

“That made it lighter and easier. When 
you are a mother yourself you Avill under- 
stand.” 

“But General Picardy” — for I could not 
say grandfather — “ did he answer your let- 
ter ?” 

“ No. Still, I took care he should always 
have the option of doing so. Wherever we 
lived, I sent our address to the lawyer. But 
nothing came of it, so of late years I con- 
cluded he was either grown childish — he 
must be a good age now — or was dead. But 
I kept faithfully to my promise. I told you 
nothing about him, and I educated you so 
as to meet all chances — to be either Miss 
Picardy of Broadlands, or Miss Picardy, 
the daily governess, as I was slowly coming 
to the conclusion you would have to be. 
Now — ” 

My mother looked steadily at me, and I at 
her. I do not deny the sudden vision of a 
totally changed life — a life of ease and 
amusement, able to get and to give away 
all the luxuries I chose — flashed across my 
mind’s eye. “ Miss Picardy of Broadlands,” 
and Miss Picardy, the poor daily governess. 
What a difference! My heart beat, my 
cheeks burned. 

“ Suppose your grandfather should want 
you? You said he seemed much agitated 
at hearing your name ; and he must have 
taken some trouble to inform you of his, and 
his address too. No doubt he wishes you 
to write to him.” 

“ I will not. He is a wretch I” 

“ Hush ; he is your grandfather.” 

“Don’t attempt to make excuses for his 
conduct,” cried I, furiously, the more furi- 
ously for that momentary longing after 
better fortunes to which I have pleaded 
guilty. “ I will never forgive him as long 
as I live.” 


35 

“That is more than I have ever said of 
him or any human being.” , 

“ Because, mother, you are the most gen- 
erous woman alive. Also, because the wromr 
was done to yourself. It is much easier, as 
you often say, to forgive for one’s self than 
for another person. Myself I don’t care for ; 
but I can’t forgive him for his behavior to 
you.” 

“You ought, I think,” was the earnest an- 
swer. “Listen, Elma. Unkind as he was, 
unfairly as he treated me, he himself was 
treated unfairly too. I could never explain, 
never put myself right with him. I was 
obliged to bear it. But it made me tender 
over him — indeed, rather sorry for him. 
Never mind me, my child. There is no rea- 
son in the world why your grandfather 
should not be very fond of you.” 

Here my mother began to tremble, though 
she tried not to show it, and I felt her grasp 
tighten over my hand. 

“ Darling mother,” said I, cheerfully, 
“ why should we trouble ourselves any more 
about this matter ? I have seen my grand- 
father. He has seen me. Let us ho2)e the 
jjleasure was mutual ! And there it ends.” 

“ It will not end,” said my mother, half to 
herself. She looked up at me as I stood on 
the hearth, very proud and erect, I dare say, 
for I felt proud. I longed to have a chance 
of facing my grandfather again, and letting 
him see that I had a spirit equal to his own ; 
that if he disclaimed me, I also was indiffer- 
ent to him, and wished to have nothing in 
common with him — except the name, of 
which he could not dejirive me : I too was a 
Picardy. My mother looked at me keenly, 
as if I had been another woman’s child and 
not hers. “ No, no, it will not end.” 

But when two, three, four days slipped by 
and nothing occurred — ^to be sure, it would 
have been rather difficult for my grandfather 
to find us out, but I never thought of that 
commonplace fact — the sense that all had 
ended came upon me with a vexatious 2>ain. 

I had obstinately resisted my mother’s pro- 
posal to write to General Picardy. 

“ No ; the lawyer has our London address ; 
he can write there, and we shall get it in 
time. By all means let him have a little 
trouble in discovering us, as lie might have 
done any time these seventeen years.” 

“ But the address may have got lost,” ar- 
gued my mother. “ Or when he comes to 
think it over, and especially when he gets 


36 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


no answer to liis card, he may doubt if you 
were the right -person. Yet, if he only look- 
ed at you — 

However, if I bore my father’s likeness in 
my face, I was all my mother in my heart j 
as self-contained, as independent, only not 
half so meek, as she. My spirit revolted 
against my grandfather ; bitterly I resented 
those long years of silence on his part, when, 
for all he knew, W'e might have sunk into 
hopeless poverty, or even starved. 

“ No, he knew we could not starve,” said 
my mother, when I angrily suggested this. 

I told him we had our pension, which 
doubtless he considered quite enough — for 
us. You must remember, in his eyes I was 
a very humble person.” 

“ You, with your education !” 

“ He never knew I was educated. Nobody 
ever told him any thing about me,” added 
she, sadly. “He only knew I was a trades- 
man’s daughter; and that, to persons like 
General Picardy, is a thing unpardonable. 
His son might as well have married a com- 
mon servant; he saw no difference; indeed, 
he said so.” 

“Oh, mother!” 

“ It is true — and you will find many oth- 
ers who think so. There are strong class 
(listinctions in the world — only we have 
lived out of the world ; but we can not do so 
much longer ;” and she sighed. “ As to lady- 
hood, an educated woman is every where aud 
always a lady. But you are also a lady born.” 

Aud then she told me of my long string 
of ancestors, and how her marriage must 
have fallen like a thunder-bolt upon the 
family aud its prejudices. Why my father 
ever risked it, I can not comprehend, except 
by supposing him to have been a young man 
who always did what he liked best at the 
moment, without reflecting on its conse- 
quences to himself or to others. 

But my mother, my long-suffering, noble- 
hearted mother — the scape-goat upon whom 
all his sins were laid — 

“ lias the pearl less whiteness 
Because of its birth ? 

Has the violet lees brightness 
For growing near earth ?” 

I repeated these lines to her, half laughing, 
half crying, vowing that no power on earth 
should compel me to have any thing to s.ay 
to General Picardy, unless he fully and re- 
spectfully recognized my mother. 

But there seemed little chance of this he- ' 


roic resolution being put to the test. Day 
after day slipped by ; the ring of purple and 
yellow crocuses under our parlor window 
dropped their cups and lay prone on the 
ground, to be succeeded by red and lilac 
primroses. Soon in our daily walks we found 
the real wild primroses. I brought them 
home by handfuls, happy as a child. I had 
never before lived in the country — the real 
country — such as I had read of in Miss Mit- 
ford’s aud other books ; and every day 
brought me new interests and new pleas- 
ures, small indeed, but very delicious. 

However, in the midst of all, I think we 
were both conscious of a certain uneasy sus- 
pense — perhai)s even disappointment. No 
word came from my grandfather. Whether 
we hoped or feared — I hardly know which 
my feeling was — that he would find us out, 
he did not do it. The suspense made me 
restless, so restless that I w'as sure my moth- 
er saw it, for she proposed to recommence 
my studies. 

“ ‘ ’Tis better to work than live idle, 

’Tia better to sing than to grieve.’” 

said she, smiling. 

“But I am not grieving; what should I 
grieve about ? I have every thing in the 
world to make me happy,” was my half-vex- 
ed reply. 

And yet /5omehow I was not quite happy. 
I kept pondering again and again over the 
story of my parents, and recalling every 
word and look of my grandfather, who had 
attracted me to an extent of which I myself 
was unaware until I began to doubt if I 
should ever see him any more. Whatever 
his faults might have been, or whatever 
faults of others, as my mother half hinted, 
might have caused them, to me he had ap- 
peared altogether charming. 

Besides, though I sliould have been 
ashamed to own these last, with the thought 
of him came many foolish dreams — spring- 
ing out of the Picardy blood, I fiincied, and 
yet before I knew there was any thing re- 
markable in the Picardy blood they had 
never come to me — dreams of pride, of posi- 
tion ; large houses to live in, beautiful clothes 
to wear, aud endless luxuries both to enjoy 
and to distribute. Yes, let me do n)yself 
this justice — I never wished to enjoy alone. 

When we peeped at the handsome old 
houses walled in with their lovely gardens, 
as one often sees in Devonshire villages, or 
met the inmates, who passed us by, of course. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


37 


they being the “gentry” of the place, and 
we only poor people living in lodgings, I 
used to say to myself, “ Never mind, I am as 
well born as they ; better perhaps, if they 
only knew it and I would carry myself 
all the loftier because I knew my clothes 
were so plain and so shabby — for I refused 
to have any thing that summer, lest my 
mother should feel compunction about her 
Paisley shawl. 

That lovely shawl! it was my one unal- 
loyed pleasure at this time. She looked so 
sweet in it — its soft white and gray harmo- 
nizing with the black dress she always wore, 
though she did not pretend to permanent 
mourning. Though not exactly a pretty 
woman, she had so much of youth about her 
still that she gave the effect of prettiness; 
and being small, slight, and dainty of figure, 
if you walked behind her you might have 
taken her for a girl in her teens instead of a 
woman long past forty. A lady indeed I — 
she was a lady, every inch of her I The idea 
of my grandfather supposing she was not! 
I laughed to myself, over and over again as 
I recalled how I had unconsciously praised 
her to him. If he expected me to be ashamed 
of my mother, he would find himself egre- 
giously mistaken. 

How did she feel ? Was her mind as full 
as mine of this strange adventure, which had 
promised so much and resulted in nothing? 
I could not tell, she never spoke about it ; 
not till, having waited and waited till I 
could bear it no longer, I put to her the 
question direct, did she think we should 
ever hear of my grandfather, and would she 
be glad or sorry if we never did ? 


“ My child, I hardly know. It may be, aj 
I said, that the lawyer has lost our address, 
or that General Picardy expects you to pay 
him the respect of writing first. Would 
you like to do it ?” 

“ No. And you ? You never answered 
my second question — if we hear of him no 
more, shall you be sorry or glad ?” 

My mother hesitated. “ At first, I own it 
was a great shock to know he was so near, 
and had seen you, because I always felt sure 
that once seeing you, he would want to have 
you.” 

“ And would you have let him have me ?” 

She smiled faintly. “I think I would 
have tried to do what was right at the time ; 
what was best for you, my darling. But 
apparently we are neither of us likely to 
have the chance. I fear yon must be con- 
tent with only your mother.” 

Only my mother! Did she imagine I was 
not content ? And had her imaginations 
any foundation ? 

I think not. The more I recall my old 
self, that poor Elma Picardy, who had so 
many faults, the more I feel sure that this 
fault was not one of them. I had a romantic 
longing to see my grandfather again, i)er- 
haps even a wish to rise to my natural level 
in society and enjoy its advantages ; but 
love of luxury, position, or desire for per- 
sonal admiration — these were not my sins. 
Nothing that my grandfather could have 
given me would have weighed for a moment 
in comparison with my mother. 

So the weeks went by and nothing hap- 
pened. It was already the end of April, 
when something did ha^ipen at last. 




CHAPTER V. 



We had been taking a long walk across 
the Tyning, and down the sloping fields to 
the deep valley through which the river 
ran, the pretty river, which first turned an 
ancient cloth-mill, and then wound out into 
the open country in picturesque curves. I 
had a basket with me, and as we sauntered 
along between the high banks — such a treas- 
ure-trove of floral beauty ! like most Somer- 
setshire lanes — I filled it with roots of blue 
and white violets. Even now the smell of 
white violets makes me remember that day. 

When we got into our little parlor, rather 
tired, both of us, I set the basket down be- 
side a letter, which I was nearly sweeping 
off the table. It was not a post letter, but 
had been sent by hand. 


“ Stop ! what is that f ’ said my mother. 

What was it indeed ? I have it still. 

It is a long letter, in a firm, clear, but 
rather small handwriting ; no slovenliness 
about it, neither the carelessness of youth, 
nor the infirmity of age ; a little formal and 
methodical, perhai)s — I afterward learned to 
like formality and method, at least to see 
the advantages of both. But the letter. 

“ Dear Madam, — I write by desire of my 
cousin. General Picardy, who has for.several 
weeks kept his bed with severe and sudden 
illness, a sort of suppressed gout, from which 
he is now gradually recovering. His ex- 
tremely helpless condition, until at last he 
sent for me, may account for the long delay 
in this communication. 

“ On the day of his seizure he had acci- 
dently seen and conversed with a young lady 
whom he afterward had reason to believe 
was your daughter, and his granddaughter. 
He asked in vain for her name and address, 
and then gave his own, on the chance of her 
being the right person. Receiving no an- 
swer, he concluded he had been mistaken. 
But unwilling to trust servants with his pri- 
vate affairs, he waited till I could act as his 
amanuensis, and get from his lawyer the 
address you once promised always to give. 
This we have with difficulty obtained. 

“It is of course a mere chance that the 
young lady whom the General met, and 
whose name he fancied was Picardy, should 
be his granddaughter ; but he wishes to try 
the chance. The bearer of this letter is the 
old butler who delivered the card, aud who 
declares that the lady to whom he delivered 
it was the very image of his young master, 
whom he remembers weU. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


39 


“ Will you, dear madam, oblige me iu one 
thing ? Whatever may be your feelings with 
regard to my cousin, will you remember that 
he is now an old man, and that any agitation 
may be dangerous, even fatal, to him ? One 
line to say if it was really his granddaughter 
whom he met, and you will hear from him 
again immediately. In the sincere hope of 
this, allow me to sign myself, dear madam, 

“ Your faithful servant, 

“ Conrad Picardy.” 

‘‘Conrad Picardy,” repeated my mother 
aloud. I, reading the letter over her shoul- 
der, was much more agitated by it than she. 
These weeks of suspense had apparently 
calmed her, and prepared her for whatever 
might happen. Her voice was quite steady, 
and her hand did not shake, as she gave 
me the letter to read over a second time. 
“ Conrad Picardy. That is certainly the 
cousin — your grandfather’s heir. It is gen- 
erous of him to try to discover a possible 
heiress.” . . 

“ I thought the estate was entailed.” 

“ So it is, the landed estate ; but the Gen- 
eral can not possibly have lived up to his 
large income. He is doubtless rich, and 
free to leave his money to whomsoever he 
chooses.” 

“ To me. probably ?” said I, with a curl of 
the lip. “ Thank you, mother, for the sug- 
gestion.” 

“It would be but a natural and right 
thing,” returned my mother, gently, “though 
I do not think it very probable. This 
Conrad has no doubt been like a son to 
him for years. I remember — yes, I am 
sure I remember, hearing all about him. 
He was an orphan boy at school: a very 
good boy.” 

“ I hate good boys !” 

Walking to the window, I stood looking 
out, in the hope that my mother would not 
notice the excessive agitation which pos- 
sessed me. Nevertheless I listened with all 
my ears to the conversation that passed be- 
tween her and Mrs. Golding. 

“ No, ma’am, the messenger didn’t wait, 
though he first said he would ; and tied his 
horse to the palings, and I asked him into 
your parlor, he was such a very respectable- 
looking man. But the minute I had shut 
the door he opened it and called me back, 
to ask whose miniature was that on the 
chimney-piece — your dear husband’s, ma’am. 


And when I told him that, he said it was 
quite enough ; he would call for an answer 
to the letter to-morrow morning, for the 
sooner he got back to Bath the better. And 
I thought so too, ma’am,” in a mysterious 
whisper ; “ and do you know I was not sor- 
ry to get him out of the house. For I do 
believe he was the servant of that imperti- 
nent old fellow who — ” 

“ Mrs. Golding,” I cried, “ speak more re- 
spectfully, if you please. That ‘ old fellow,’ 
as you call him, happens to be my grand- 
father.” 

If ever a woman was “struck all of a 
heap,” as she would say, it was Mrs. Gold- 
ing ! She had been very kind to us, in a 
rather patronizing way, as well-to-do com- 
monalty likes to patronize poor gentility — 
or so I had angrily fancied sometimes ; but 
she had never failed to show us the respect 
due to “ real” ladies. To find us grand folks, 
or connected with grand folks, after all, was 
quite too much for her. She put on such 
an odd look of alarm, deprecation, astonish- 
ment, that I burst out laughing. 

Much offended, the good woman was quit- 
ting the room when my mother came for- 
ward in that sweet, fearless, candid way 
she had ; she often said the plain truth was 
not only the wisest but the easiest course, 
and saved people a world of trouble, if they 
only knew it. 

“My daughter is quite in earnest, Mrs. 
Golding ; General Picardy really is her 
grandfather, and my fixther-in-law ; but, as 
often happens in families, there has been a 
long coolness between us, so that when they 
met they did not recognize one another un- 
til he heard you mention her name. A for- 
tunate chance, and you will not be sorry to 
think you had a hand in it.” (My mother, 
dear heart ! had always the sweetest way of 
putting things.) 

Mrs. Golding cleared up at once. “ In- 
deed, ma’am, I’m delighted. And of course 
he’ll be wanting you immediately. I wish 
you joy. Such a grand carriage, and miss 
there will look so well in it! A fine old 
gentleman he was — a real gentleman, as any 
one could see she was a real lady. Why, 
ma’am, the day she and I was in Bath, there 
was not a soul but turned and looked after 
us, ^nd I’m sure it w^asu’t at me ! You’ll 
make a great show in the world ; but don’t 
heed it, don’t heed it ; it’s a poor world after 
all. Miss Picardy.” 


40 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


Very fiiiiuy was the struggle between the 
old woman’s pleasure and pride in this ro- 
mantic adventure, especially since she too 
had had a finger in the pie, and her ac- 
quired habit of mourning over that “world” 
which she secretly liked still. But we had 
no time to discuss her and her feelings ; we 
were too full of our own. 

“ What must he done f ’ said my mother, 
as she and I sat down together, the letter 
before us. “ The man said he should call 
for an answer to-morrow. What shall I 
say V’ 

“ Whatever you choose, mother dear.” 

She looked at me keenly. “Have you 
really no wish, either way ? You are old 
enough to have both a wish and a will of 
your own.” 

“Not contrary to yours. You shall de- 
cide.” 

For I felt that if it were left to me, the 
decision would he so difficult as to he all 
hut impossible. 

My mother read the letter over again. 
“A very good letter, courteous and kind. 
Let me see: this Conrad was a school-boy, 
about fifteen or so when you were born. 
He would now be between thirty and forty. 
Probably he is married, with a family to 
provide for. It is really much against his 
own interest to help the General to find out 
a granddaughter.” 

I laughed scornfully — I was very scornful 
sometimes in those days. “ He may do as 
he chooses, and so shall I. So doubtless 
will my grandfather, in whose hands we’ll 
leave the matter.” 

“No, in hands much higher,” said my 
mother, reverently. “Nothing happens by 
chance. Chance did not bring us here ; nor 
send you ignorantly to meet your grand- 
father in Bath twice in the same day. It 
was very curious. Something will come of 
it, I am sure.” (So, in my heart, was I.) 
“ But whatever comes, you will always be 
my daughter, my one ewe -lamb. I have 
nobody in the world but you.” 

She held out her arms half imploringly, as 
if she feared she knew not what. As I ca- 
ressed her, I told her she was a foolish old 
mother to be so afraid. 

“No, I am not afraid. No true mother 
ever need be. Her little bird may fly away 
for a time, but is sure to come back to its 
own safe nest. So will you.” 

“ But I am not going to fly away — not, at 


least, without you. I never mean to leave 
you.” 

“Never is a long word, my darling. Let 
us content ourselves with settling the aftairs 
of to-day — and to-morrow.” 

“ When we will just send the briefest pos- 
sible answer — perhaps only your card — to 
General Picardy: your ‘kind compliments 
and thanks’ to Mr. Picardy, this ‘ good boy’ 
Conrad, and then go a long walk, and get 
more violets.” 

Alas! I was not quite honest. My thoughts 
were running upon very different things than 
violets. 

I scarcely slept all night ; nor, I think — 
for I had my head on her shoulder — did my 
mother sleep much either. But we did not 
trouble one another with talking. Perhaps 
both felt by instinct that to talk would be 
difficult, since for the first time in our lives 
we were looking on the same thing with 
different eyes, and each had thoughts which 
she could not readily tell to the other. This 
was sure to happen one day ; it must hap- 
pen to every human being: we all find 
ourselves at some point of our lives alone, 
quite alone. Still it was rather sad and 
strange. 

Next morning after breakfast, when my 
mother had just said, “ Now, child, we must 
make up our minds what to do, and do it 
at once,” there appeared a grand carriage, 
with two servants, one of tliem being the 
same old man who had followed me with 
his master’s card. He presented it once 
more. 

“ General Picardy’s compliments, and he 
has sent the carriage, hoping Miss Picardy 
will come and spend the day with him at 
Bath. He will send her back in the same 
way at night.” 

A brief message, delivered with military 
exactitude. The one thing in it which 
struck me was that it was exclusively to 
Miss Picardy. There was no mention of 
Mrs. Picardy at all. I wondered did my 
mother notice this. 

Apparently not. “ Would you like to go, 
my darling?” was all she said; and then, 
seeing my state of mind, suggested we should 
go up stairs together. “We will answer the 
General’s message immediately,” said she, 
pointing to a chair in our poor little parlor 
for the grand servant to sit down. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” answered he, and 
touched his forehead, military fashion. Yes, 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


41 


the old soldier at once recognized that she 
was a lady. 

Then we sat together, my mother and I, 
with our bedroom door shut, hearing the 
horses champing outside, and knowing that 
we had only a few minutes in which to make 
a decision which might alter our whole fu- 
ture lives : my life certainly — and was not 
mine a part of hers ? It had been hitherto, 
was it i)0ssible things would be ditfereut 
now ? 

“Would you like to go, Elma? Would 
you be happy in going V’ 

“ lu going without you V’ 

Then she recognized the full import of the 
message. “ I xierceive. He does not want 
me ; he wishes you to go alone.” 

“ Then, whatever he wishes, I will not go. 
Not a step will I stir without my mother. 
Nobody shall make me do it.” 

“ Stop a minute, my furious little woman. 
Nobody wants to make you. That is not 
the question. The question is how far you 
are right to refuse a hand held out thus — an 
old man’s hand.” 

“ But if it has struck my mother ?” 

She smiled. “ The blow harmed me not, 
and it has healed long ago. He did not un- 
derstand — he did not mean it. Besides, I am 
not his own flesh and blood ; you are. He 
is jmur own grandfather.” 

“ But he does not love me, nor I him, and 
love is the only thing worth having.” 

“ Love might come.” 

I recall my mother’s look as she sat plead- 
ing thus, and I wonder how she had the 
strength to do it. I think there is only one 
kind of love — mother’s love, and that not 
even the love of all mothers — which could 
have done it. 

She argued with me a long time. At last 
I begged her to decide for me just as if I 
were still a little child ; but she said I was 
old enough to decide for myself, and in such 
an important step I must decide. All this 
while the horses kept tramping the ground 
outside; every sound of their feet seemed 
to tramp upon my heart. If ever a poor 
creature felt like being torn in two, it was I 
at that moment. 

For I wanted to go — I longed to go. Not 
merely for the childish pleasure of driving 
in a grand carriage to a flne house, but also 
because I had formed a romantic ideal of my 
grandfather; I wished to realize it — to see 
him again, and find out if he really were the 


kind of man I imagined. If so, how fond of 
him, how proud of him I should have been ! 
I, poor Elma Picardy, who never in her life 
had seen a man, a real, heroic man ; only 
creatures on two legs, with ridiculous cloth- 
ing and contemptible faces, and manners to 
match. Not one of them ought to be named 
in the same day with my grandfather. 

Yes; I was thirsting to go to him; but I 
could not bear to let my mother see it. At 
last a loop-hole of hope appeared. 

“Perhaps there was some mistake in the 
message. Let us send Mrs. Golding to ask 
the servant to repeat it.” 

No ; there was no mistake. He was 
quite sure his master expected Miss Picar- 
dy only. 

Then I made up my mind. I had a mind 
and a will too, when I chose to exercise 
them, and the thing in this world which 
most roused me was to see a wrong done to 
another person. Here the injured person 
happened to be my own mother. Of course 
I made up my mind ! 

“Very well. I will answer the message 
myself. You, mother darling, shall have 
nothing to do with it.” 

And as I spoke I pressed her into an arm- 
chair ; for she looked very pale, and leaning- 
over her, I kissed her fondly. As I did so it 
dawned upon me that the time might come, 
was xierhaps coming now, w'hen I might have 
to take care of my mother, not she of me. Bo 
it so ; I was ready. 

“Messages are sometimes misdelivered. 
Write yours,” said she, looking at me, a lit- 
tle surprised, but I think not sorry; nay, 
glad. 

I took a sheet of i)aper, and wrote in as 
clear and steady a hand as I could, 

“ Elma Picardy thanks her grandfather for 
his kindness ; but, as she told him, she has 
scarcely ever in her life spent a whole day 
away from her mother. Sbe can not do it 
now. She must decline his invitation.” 

Then I walked down stairs, and gave the 
letter myself to the servant, the old man who 
had known my father. He must have seen 
my father in my face, for he looked at me 
with swimming eyes — big, beaming Irish 
eyes (have I ever said that the Picardys were 
an Irish, or rather a French family long 
Hibernicized?). He held the letter doubt- 
fully. 

“Ah, miss, it’s to say ye’re coming, is it? 
You that are the young masther’s own daugh- 


42 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


ter, and as like Mm as two peas. The ould 
masther’s mad to see ye. Sure now, ye’ll 
come ?” 

It was my first welcome among my fa- 
ther’s people, and to reject it seemed hard. 
But I only shook my head. 

“ No, I’m not coming.” 

“ And why don’t ye come. Miss Picardy ?” 
said the old man, with true Irish freedom — 
the freedom of long devotion to the family. 
I afterward found that he had dandled on 
his knee my father and my four dead uncles^ 
and now was nursing his old master with 
the tenderness of a brother. “ Ye’re of the 
ould stock. Wouldn’t ye like to visit the 
General ?” 

“ Very much, but — I could not possibly go 
without my mother.” 

The Irish have many faults, but want of 
tact is not one of them. 

“ You are right, miss, quite right, and I’ll 
tell the General so if he asks me. Good-day. 
It ’ll all come right by-and-by, mark my 
words. Miss Picardy.” 

This was just a little too much. I did not 
understand people taking liberties with me. 
I drew myself u]3, and saw my grandfather’s 
carriage drive away — standing as still as a 
statue and as proud as Lucifer. But when 
it was quite out of sight, and my chance 
gone — perhaps the one chance in my life of 
rising to the level to which I was born — the 
2 )ride broke down, the statue melted, I am 
afraid into actual tears. 

My mother should not see them, that I was 
determined ; so I ran into Mrs. Golding’s emp- 
ty kitchen, and dried them, although, having 
left my pocket-handkerchief up stairs, I had 
to dry them on the round towel ! This most 
iinpoetical solution of things knocked all 
the nonsense out of me, and I went up stairs 
to my mother with a gay face and quiet 
heart. 

She had said nothing, one way or other, 
after she told me to decide for myself, but 
]iow that I had decided she looked at me with 
gladdened eyes, and leaned her head on my 
shoulder, uttering a sigh of relief. And once 
again I felt how proud I should be when we 
had to change places, and I became my moth- 
er’s shield and comforter, as she had been 
mine. Sometimes, of course, regrets would 
come, and wonderings as to how my grand- 
father had taken my answer ; but I put such 
thoughts back, and after all we had a happy 
day. 


The next day — oh ! how lovely it was ! I 
remember it as if it were yesterday. Spring 
had come at last. The sun shone with the 
changeful brightness of April and the com- 
fortable wfirmth of June. The palms were 
all out, and the scent from their opening- 
buds filled the lanes. The woods were yel- 
low with primroses and blue with violets; 
hyacinths were not in blossom yet. As for 
sound, what with larks in the sky, linnets 
and wrens in the hedge-rows, and black- 
birds on every tall tree, the whole world 
seemed to be full of birds’ singing. A day 
to make old folk feel young again, and the 
young — why, I felt alive to the very ends 
of my fingers with a sense of enjoyment pres- 
ent, a foreboding of infinitely greater delight 
to come. How can I describe it ? the deli- 
cious feeling peculiar to one’s teens, the 
“ light that never was on sea or shore.” No, 
never was — never could be, perhaps; we 
only see its dawning. But there may be 
full day somewhere, beyond this world of 
pain. 

My mother and I were coming home from 
our long walk. She carried a great bunch 
of primroses for our parlor ; I had a basket 
of violet roots to plant in Mrs. Golding’s 
garden. I was determined to finish her vio- 
let bed — in spite of my grandfather ! indeed, 
I tried hard to forget him, and to believe 
that all yesterday had been a dream. 

No, it was not a dream, for at that minute 
we came face to face with a carriage turning 
round the corner of the solitary Bath road. 
It was my grandfather’s carriage, and he 
himself sat in it. 

That it was he I saw at once, and my 
mother guessed at once, for she grasped me 
by the arm. He leaned back, a little paler, 
a little sterner-looking than I remembered 
him ; but it was not at all a bad face or a 
mean face. On the contrary, there was some- 
thing very noble in it ; even his worst enemy 
would have said so. I could have felt sorry 
for him, as he sat in the sunshine, with his 
eyes closed, apparently not enjoying this 
beautiful world at all. 

Should we pass him by? That was my 
first impulse. It would be easy enough ; 
easy also to remain out-of-doors till all chance 
of his finding us, if he had really come to 
call, was over. Pride whispered thus — and 
yet— 

No, it was too late. The old butler or 
valet, or whatever he was, had seen us ; he 





UKNFRAL, THIS IS MT;S. VIOAUPV 





MY MOTHER AND I. 


45 


touched his hat and said something to a 
gentleman who sat opposite to my grandfa- 
ther. The carriage stopped, and this gentle- 
man immediately sprang out. 

“ I beg your pardon ; I presume you are 
Mrs. Picardy V’ 

He had addressed himself to my mother, 
taking no notice of me. She bowed ; I did 
nothing ; all my attention was fixed on my 
grandfather, who seemed with difficulty to 
rouse himself so as to take in what was 
happening. The other gentleman spoke to 
him. 

“General, this is Mrs. Picardy. Madam, 
we were going to call. My cousin is too 
lame to get out of the carriage. Will you 
mind entering it and driving a little way 
with him? He wishes much to be intro- 
duced to you.” 

I can not tell how he managed it — the 
stranger — who, of course, I guessed was not 
a stranger, but my cousin, Conrad Picardy — 
however, he did manage it. Almost before 
we knew where we were, the momentous 
meeting was over, and that without any 
tragic emotion on either side. It was just 
an ordinary introduction of a gentleman to 
a lady. My mother was calm, my grand- 
father courteous. The whole thing was as 
commonplace as possible. No conversation 
passed, beyond a few words on the extreme 
beauty of the day and the length of the 
drive from Bath, until my mother said some- 
thing about her regret to find the General 
such an invalid. 

“ Yes, I suffer much,” said he. “ Poor old 
thing !” j)atting his swathed leg propped on 
cushions, “it is almost worse than when I 
was shot in battle. I can not walk a step. 
I am a nuisance to every body, especially to 
ray good cousin. By-the-bye, I should have 
presented him to you — Major Picardy, Mrs. 
Picardy ; and, Conrad, this is my grand- 
daughter, Elma.” .. 

He said my name with a tender intona- 
tion. It was a family name, my mother had 
told me ; in every generation there had been 
always at least one Elma Picardy. 

Major Picardy bowed, and then, as my 
mother held out her hand, he shook hands 
with us both. His was a touch rather pe- 
culiar, unlike all clasps of the hand I ever 
knew, being at once soft and firm ; strong as 
a man’s, gentle as a woman’s. I can feel it 
still, even as I can still see my mother’s 
smile. His face — it seemed as if I had seen 


it before somewhere — was of the same type 
as my grandfather’s, only not so hard. He 
looked about thirty-five, or a little older. 

“Major Picardy is visiting me now,” said 
my grandfather. “ He is kind enough to say 
he is not weary of my dull house, where, 
madam, I have nothing to offer you, should 
you honor me with a visit, but the society 
of two lonely soldiers.” 

My mother bowed courteously, acknowl- 
edging but not absolutely accepting the in- 
vitation. 

“Major Picardy is not married, then?” 
said she, turning to him. “ I thought — I im- 
agined — ”, 

“No, not married,” said he j and the shad- 
ow flitting across his face made my mother 
speak at once of something else, and caused 
me to begin weaving no end of romantic rea- 
sons why he was still a bachelor, this elder- 
ly cousin of mine, for to seventeen thirty- 
five is quite elderly. But he interested me, 
being the same sort of man apparently as 
my grandfather, only younger. 

General Picardy was entirely of the old 
school. He called my mother “madam,” 
and addressed her with the formal politeness 
of a Sir Charles Grandison. In no way did 
he betray that there had ever been any an- 
ger between them, or that he had ever treat- 
ed her in any way ditierent from now. 

Should I condone his offenses ? Shonld I 
forgive him ? Alas ! I fear I never once 
thought of his sins or my condescending 
pardon. I was wholly absorbed in the pleas- 
ure of this meeting, and in my intense ad- 
miration of my grandfather. 

When the carriage, having moved slowly 
up and down the village for half an hour, set 
us down at our own door, he renewed the 
invitation. 

“ I will send the carriage for you, madam ; 
and if yon will remain the night — a few 
days — a week — you and this girl of yours — 
my girl, too” — and he gently touched my 
hand — “ I shall be only too happy. Fix the 
day when I may have the honor of receiving 
you ; an early day, I trust.” 

“ Oh, mother,” I cried, eagerly, “let us go^ 
let us go to morrow!” 

My grandfather looked pleased. 

“ See what it is to have a young lady to 
decide for us elders. Madam, you must 
agree. Conrad, you will arrange every thing, 
as far as is possible to us helpless soldiers? 
Child, if we once let you into our house, I 


46 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


fear you will turn commauder-in-cliief there, 
and rule us all.’’ 

This speech, implying a future so bright 
that I hardly dared believe in it, settled the 
matter. My mother, whatever she felt, be- 
trayed nothing, but assented cheerfully to 


the plan, and when we all parted it was with 
the understanding that we should spend the 
next day and night under my grandfather’s 
roof, “ and as many more days and nights, 
madam, as you may find convenient or agree- 
able.” 







1 





'It 







I DID sleep under my grandfather’s roof, 
but it was not for a week after that, and it 
was without my mother. 

That very night she slipped on the stairs 
and sprained her ankle — no serious injury, 
but enough to make her glad to rest on the 
sofa, and coniine herself to our two little 
rooms. 

‘‘And it would never do to go hobbling 
helplessly about big ones,” said she. “ Be- 
sides, all gentlemen hate invalids — no doubt 
your grandfather does. He is an old man, 
and you may have to put up with some pe- 
culiarities. I think you will do this better, 
and get on' with him better, quite alone.” 

“ You don’t mean me to go alone ?” 

“ Yes, my child,” said she, decisively. 

And I found she had already answered 
affirmatively a letter of his — or, rather, of 
Major Picardy’s, begging I might come, and 
explaining that ho had invited a Mrs. Rix, 
another “elderly” cousin, to stay at Royal 
Crescent as my companion and chaperon 
until my mother joined me. 

At first I remonstrated vehemently. Ei- 
ther we would go tog'^ther, or I would not 
go at all — at least, not to-morrow, as she had 
arranged. 

“ But he earnestly desires it. And you for- 
get, my child, that a man over seventy has 
not too many to-morrows.” 

“ Oh, you wish me to go ? You want to 
get rid of me ?” 

My mother smiled — a strangely pathetic 
smile. In a moment my arms were round 
her neck. 

“ I’ll do any thing you like, mammy dear, 
any thing you consider right and best.” 

“ Thank you, my darling. But we will sleep 
upon it, and see what to-morrow brings.” 


It brought another urgent letter from my 
grandfather — that is, his amanuensis, wish- 
ing us both to go, in spite of my mother’s 
half-invalid state ; but I could not get her 
to change her mind. Perhaps she was glad 
of an excuse to stay behind ; but chiefly, I 
fancied, because, thinking always of me, and 
never of herself, she honestly believed I 
should get on better with my grandfather 
alone. Whatever were her reasons, evident- 
ly her resolution was taken. 

“ And now let us pack up, my child ; for 
the carriage” (Major Picardy said it would 
be sent on chance) “ought to be here di- 
rectly.” 

“Put up very few things, mother, for I 
shall certainly be back in two days,” said I, 
half indignant at her thinking she could do 
without me so easily. 

“You have very few things altogether, 
my poor Elma; not half whatJGeneral Pic- 
ardy’s granddaughter ought to wear,” said 
my mother, with one of her troubled looks. 

“ Nonsense !” and my passionate pride rose 
up. “He must take me as I am — clothes 
and all. It is not his doing that I have not 
run about in rags these seventeen years.” 

“Hush! my darling. Let by-gones be 
by-gones. He wishes this, I am sure. If 
you had seen the way he looked at you the 
other day! and you are all that is left to 
him, the only ehild of his race and name. 
He is sure to love you.” 

“ Is he ?” 

Though I said nothing, in my heart of 
hearts I felt that I too could love my grand- 
father — if he would let me. There was such 
a world of love in me then — such a capacity 
for admiring and adoring people. I longed 
to And creatures worthy of worship, and to 


48 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


make myself a mat for tlieir feet to walk 
over. Hopeless delusion ! not rare in young 
girls, and costing them many a pang; yet 
better and safer than the other delusion, 
that every body must be admiring and ador- 
ing them. After all, I have known worse 
human beings than j)oor Elma Picardy at 
seventeen. 

Our preparations were scarcely finished — 
and I found from the condition of my ward- 
robe that my mother must have been silent- 
ly preparing it all the week — when I heard 
the sound of carriage wheels. My heart 
jumped — I could not help it — I was so sorry 
to go,' yet so glad. In truth, I could not un- 
derstand myself at all. 

Major Picardy had said something about 
fetching me himself; but the carriage was 
empty. This was a relief ; for how could I 
have talked all the way to Bath with a per- 
fect stranger ? A relief also was it that my 
good-byes had to be so brief. I had no time 
to think whether I was happy or miserable. 

My mother clasped and kissed me fondly, 
but without tears. 

“ There is nothing to weep for, my child. 
Go, and be happy. One only advice I give 
you — it is your family motto, only put into 
beautiful Latin — ‘ Do the right, and fear no- 
body.’ Not even your grandfather.” 

So she sent me away with a jest and a 
smile — away into the new, beautiful, un- 
known world ! This bright spring day, 
with the sun shining, the birds singing, the 
soft southwest wind blowing, what girl in 
her teens would not have been happy — at 
least, not very unhappy — even though she 
had left her mother behind for a few days, 
and was all alone ? I dried my eyes, I sat 
up in the carriage, and looked about me. 
Ah, yes, it was, indeed, a beautiful world ! 

It is so still; even though my eyes have 
ceased to shine, and almost to weep ; though 
my heart beats levelly and quietly ; and I 
look behind rather than before, except when 
I look into the world everlasting. It is — 
yes, thank God! it is still to me the same 
beautiful world. 

Leaving the delicious country lanes, we 
entered Bath streets. There I saw the ad- 
mired young ladies and admiring young gen- 
tlemen, sauntering idly up and down, look- 
ing at one another, and occasionally at me 
too. I looked at them back again, fearless- 
ly now. Times were changed ; my dreams 
were realized, my pride was healed. As 


Miss Picardy, seated in her grandfather’s car- 
riage, I met the world on an equal footing, 
and it was very pleasant. 

Will any one blame me — I hardly blame 
myself now — for enjoying things so much, 
even though I had left my mother ? Was it 
not a delight to her to see me happy? Had 
she not desired me to be happy ? And, as I 
descended from the carriage in front of my 
grandfather’s house at Royal Crescent, I 
really believe I was one of the happiest girls 
in the world. 

That house stands there yet. I passed it 
the other day. A group of children were on 
the steps ; a modern carriage, very unlike 
my grandfather’s, waited at the door. New 
people lived in it, to whom, as to the rest of 
the world, it seemed just like any other 
house. But it never will seem so to me. To 
the end of my days, I could never pass it 
without turning back to look at it — and re- 
member. 

I did not enter it without a welcome. My 
grandfather was still in his room ; but my 
cousin. Major Picardy, stood at the door, and 
behind him was an elderly lady, Mrs. Rix, 
whom I may as well describe, as I did that 
night in my letter home, as ‘‘ nothing par- 
ticular.” 

Major Picardy I have never described, and 
I doubt if I can do it now. Other people 
I see clearly enough ; but to mo he never 
seemed like other people. Perhaps, were I 
to meet him now for the first time — but 
no 1 it Avould be just the same, I am sure. 

The “ good boy” had become a good man 
— that you saw at once by his face — a hand- 
some face, I suppose, since it resembled my 
grandfather’s; but I never remember ask- 
ing myself whether it Avere handsome or not. 
It was Ms face, that was all. He was not a 
tall man — scarcely taller than I — and his 
figure was a little bent, being contracted at 
the chest ; but he had great dignity of car- 
riage, and a certain formality of manner, 
also like my grandfather, Avhich became him 
as well as it did the General. Both were 
soldiers, as I have said, and both equally 
Avell born, Avell bred, and well educated. 

^‘Welcome!” he said to me, holding out a 
kind, Avarm hand — “ AA'elcome, cousin, to the 
house of all others where you have a right 
to be Avelcome. Mrs. Rix, will you take Miss 
Picardy up to her room ?” 

Mrs. Rix, who immediately informed me 
that she Avas born a Picardy,” and seemed 


MY MOTHER AND I, 


49 


to liave an unliinited admiration, mingled 
with awe, for the whole Picardy race, led the 
way to the guest chamber, evidently the best 
room in the house, which had been prepared 
for my mother and me. A charming room it 
was, with its three windows, set in an oval, 
looking up the smiling hill-side, where, dot- 
ted among the green hills, mansion after 


into the diuiug-^oom on Major Picardy’s arm. 
At my remark he laughed, and his cousin 
smiled. 

“ Away, Conrad, and let Elm'a see how she 
likes to be au old man’s walking-stick. She 
is fully as tall as you. Come here, child.” 

I came, and he leaned on me. Does one 
love best those who lean upon one ? I think 



mansion and terrace after terrace were be- 
ginning to climb up to the very rim of the 
deep circular basin in which Bath is built. 

Yon will find it quite quiet, being at the 
back of the house. Do you like quiet, my 
dear ?” 

I did not know. But I think I liked ev- 
ery thing, and I told my grandfather so when 
I met him at lunch. He was walking feebly 
D 


some do. From that minute I began, not- 
only to admire, but to love my grandfather. 

Was he loving-hearted ? It was too much 
to expect sentiment at his age. This first 
meal at his table almost choked me, for I was 
so nervous, so full of confiicting emotions, 
that it was with difficulty I could keep from 
crying. But he ate with composure and ap- 
petite, talking Bath tittle-tattle to the oth- 


50 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


ers, and scarcely noticing me. After luncli 
lie called me to him, and took my face be- 
tween his soft, withered hands. 

“Yes, you are like your father, but still 
more like your grandmother. A beautiful 
girl she was ; you remember her, Mrs. Rix ? 
and you, Conrad?* But no, I forgot; my 
wife. Lady Charlotte Picardj^, has been dead 
these forty years.’’ 

He mentioned the fact quite calmly, not 
omitting the “Lady” Charlotte. It was 
odd, I thought, for a man to speak of a dead 
wife in that tone. Still he had never mar- 
ried again, but had lived solitary for forty 
years. 

“ You will turn her head. General, by com- 
paring her to her beautiful grandmother. 
And yet it is true,” whispered Mrs. Rix, look- 
ing at me. 

I felt that my other cousin was looking 
too. He rose. 

“ Come, where shall we go for our after- 
noon drive? What have you seen. Miss 
Picardy ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

At which, as if I had said something fun- 
ny, they all smiled at me, these three people, 
all so much my seniors, to whom I seemed 
already becoming the child of the house. 
This fact I felt sure of; their manner to me 
was so kind. Further I did not consider. 
Indeed, I was thinking so much about them 
that it did not occur to me to trouble myself 
as to what they thought about me. 

Shortly we were out in the sunshine ; and 
oh, how bright the sunshine is at Bath ! and 
how the white city and green country shine 
together under it in soft spring days, such 
days as this! The carriage moved slowly 
up the steep hill. Mrs. Rix sat beside the 
General ; Major Picardy and I opposite. 

“ Take care of his arm,” said the ever- 
fidgety Mrs. Rix, as a jolt in the carriage 
pushed us together. And then I found 
out that my cousin was invalided, having 
been shot in the shoulder at some Indian 
battle. 

“ But pray don’t look so grave about it,” 
laughed he ; “ it only makes me a little stiff. 
I have not much pain now, though the ball 
is still there. I assure you I am enjoying 
my furlough extremely. Miss Picardy.” 

“ Call her >Elma ; she is still a child,” said 
my grandfather, so affectionately that even 
the pride of seventeen could not take of- 
fense. Besides, was I not a child, and was 


it not pleasant to be so regarded and so 
treated by these three kind people ? 

They seemed different from any people I 
had ever known, especially the two gentle- 
men. Both were gentlemen in the deepest 
sense of the word. I felt it then by instinct, 
my reason satisfies me of it now. Both be- 
ing military men, they had seen a great 
deal of the world, and seen it with intelli- 
gent eyes, so that their conversation was al- 
ways interesting, often most delightful. Not 
learned, or I could not have understood it ; 
but this talk of theirs I could understand, 
and feel happy that I could. To show off 
one’s own cleverness does one harm, but to 
be able to appreciate the cleverness of other 
people always does one good. 

I was so absorbed in listening that I 
scarcely looked about me until the fresh 
wind of Combe Down blew in our faces, and 
my grandfather shivered. Major Picardy 
leaned forward to fasten his cloak for him. 
It had two lions’ heads for a clasi?, I re- 
member. Moving seemed to have hurt the 
wounded shoulder. He turned slightly pale. 

“Don’t, Conrad. You never think half 
enough of yourself. Let your arm rest. — 
Here, Mrs. Rix, may I trouble you ?” 

“ Will you not ‘ trouble’ me ?” 

I said it shyly, with much hesitation, but 
was rewarded by the sudden bright pleas- 
ure in my grandfather’s face, and not in his 
alone. It was curious what pains my cousin 
took to make me feel at ease, and especially 
with the General. 

When I had fastened the cloak — with 
rather nervous fingers, I confess — the old 
soldier took and kissed them, with that 
“ grand seigneur” air which became him so 
well, then lifted them up. “ See, Conrad, a 
true Picardy hand.” 

Cousin Conrad (I learned by-and-by to 
call him so) smiled. “ The General thinks. 
Cousin Elma, that to be born a Picardy is 
the greatest blessing that can happen to any 
human being.” 

Here Mrs. Rix looked quite frightened, 
which rather amused me, for I had sense 
enough to see that the secret of Major Pic- 
ardy’s undoubted influence with the old 
man was that, unlike most people, he was 
not afraid of him. This spoke well for both 
parties. It is only a tyrant who likes hav- 
ing slaves, and as I looked at the General, I 
felt sure he was no tyrant. Under whatev- 
er delusion he had so unkindly treated my 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


51 


mother was and is still a mystery to me — 
one that I can never penetrate, because the 
secret of it was doubtless buried in a long- 
forgotten grave. In all our intercourse he 
never once spoke to me of his son, my fa- 
ther. 

We drove down the steep valley below 
Combe Down, then re-ascended, and came 
out upon the beautiful Claverton Road. At 
Claverton Church I exclaimed, “ I know this 
I)lace quite well.” 

“ I thought you knew nothing, and had 
never been any where. When, my dear, 
were you here before 

“The day I first saw you. Sir” (I had no- 
ticed that Cousin Conrad usually called him 
“ Sir,” and he had never yet bade me call 
him “grandfather”), “ I drove past here with 
Mrs. Golding, in the carrier’s cart.” 

“ In the carrier’s cart ! — a young lady go- 
ing about in a carrier’s cart !” cried Mrs.Rix, 
aghast. 

“ But how courageous of the young lady to 
own it !” said Cousin Conrad ; and then my 
grandfather, who had looked annoyed for a 
moment, brightened up. 

“ Quite right, quite right. Mrs. Rix, I 
assure you a Picardy may do any thing. 
Only, my dear Elma, I hope you will not 
again patronize your friend the carrier, or 
indulge in any such eccentric modes of trav- 
eling.” 

“Indeed, young ladies should never do 
eccentric things,” said Mrs. Rix, eying me 
with a little curiosity, but evidently not 
having the slightest idea that I was a “poor 
relation,” and ignorant that there had ever 
been any “ difficulties” between my mother 
and the General. She had lived all her life 
in India, and was only a very distant cousin ; 
I felt glad she had not been made a confi- 
dante of the family history. But Cousin 
Conrad knew every thing, and I drew cour- 
age from his encouraging smile. 

“And this was the view you saw from 
the carrier’s cart ? Was it a pleasant con- 
veyance ?” 

“ Not verj — exceedingly shaky. But I am 
sure I shall never regret the journey.” 

“ No, I do not believe you ever will,” re- 
plied Cousin tlonrad, suddenly changing into 
gravity. 

We were standing on a tombstone, look- 
ing down the valley, he and I only, he hav- 
ing proposed to show me the beautiful little 
church and church-yard. There we had lin- 


gered for ten minutes or more, reading the 
inscriptions, and stepping from mound to 
mound — those green mounds which to me 
implied almost nothing, except a sort of 
poetic melancholy, which added a tender 
charm to life, this bright, hopeful young life 
of mine. But Cousin Conrad was older. 

“ I am very familiar with graves,” he said, 
stepping round by one of them, not juraiiing 
over it, as I did. “All belonging to me are 
dead — my kindred, and the dearest of my 
friends. I am quite alone in the world.” 

“Alone in the world! What a terrible 
thing !” 

“I do not feel it so. I have plenty of 
work to do. My doctor once told me I was 
not likely to have a very long life, and ever 
since I have determined to make it as full as 
possible.” 

“How ?” 

“ What a puzzling question I especially as 
just now you see me living the idlest of lives, 
having nothing in the world to do but to be 
a little help to your grandfather.” 

“ That is natural. Are you not my grand- 
father’s heir ?” 

“Another puzzling question. What a 
catechist you are ! Do you mean to interro- 
gate every body like this, when you come 
out into the world ?” 

“ I can not tell,” said I, laughing. “ Real- 
ly, I know nothing of the world. We never 
lived in it — my mother and I.” 

“ Would you care to live in it ?” 

“ Perhaps. But that would depend upon 
what my mother wished. She decides every 
thing.” 

“ Tell me more about your mother.” 

So I described her, in a few brief passion- 
ate words, determined that he at least should 
fully know all that she really was in herself 
and all that she had been to me. I can not 
say what made me do it, or wish to do it, to 
so slight an acquaintance ; but then he nev- 
er seemed to me a stranger, and he was of 
my own blood and name. 

Also, to speak about my mother seemed to 
make amends for what was so strange as to 
appear almost wrong — that I could be hap- 
py, actually happy, away from her. 

“ But I shall not be away long. If she is 
not able to come here, I shall go back to her — 
let me see — the day after to-morrow,” said I, 
very decidedly. 

“ Could you not enjoy staying a while with 
the General ? You like him.” 


52 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


‘‘Yes/’ hesitating, hut only because I 
doubted how far I could trust my compan- 
ion. Then looking in his face, I felt sure I 
might trust him. “ Yes, I could like my 
grandfather very much, if only I were cer- 
tain he would be kind to my mother.’^ 

Major Picardy regarded me earnestly. 
“You may set your mind at rest on that 
point, now and always.” 

“ Are you sure ?” 

“ Quite sure. He told me so. And when 
yoh know him better, you will find him a 
man who, whatever his other faults may be, 
is not given to change — perfectly sincere 
and reliable. And now let us go back. Be 
as good a girl as ever you can to your grand- 
father. He wishes for you, and remember, 
he needs you.” 

“Wishes me? needs me? Oh, I am so 
glad !” 

I went back to the carriage with a heart 
as light as the lark’s that we left singing 
over the church-yard. My heart sang too, 
a happy song all to itself, the whole way 
back. I had found something new in my 
life — my life which had seemed already as 
full as it could hold, till these fresh interests 
came, yet I found it could hold them, and 
enjoy them too. “ I must tell my mother 
all about it,” thought I, and began writing 
my evening letter in my head. But no words 
seemed strong enough to express my grand- 
father’s attractiveness and Cousin Conrad’s 
kindness. 

The dinner hour was six. Mrs. Rix told 
me she was going to dress, so I dressed like- 
wise, in my only silk gown — a soft, dark 
gray — with my best Valenciennes collar and 
cuffs. I thought my toilet splendid, till I 
saw Mrs. Rix — in cherry-colored satin, with 
bare arms and neck, covered only by a black 
lace shawl. I felt almost like a real “ poor 
relation” beside her, till I met Cousin Con- 
rad’s kind smile, as if he understood all 
about it, and was rather amused than not. 
Then I forgot my foolish vexation, and 
smiled too. 

As for my grandfather, he took no notice 
whatever of my clothes, but a good deal of 
me, talking to me at intervals all dinner- 
time, and when, that meal being quickly 
over, a good many people came dropping in, 
as was the custom in Bath, Mrs. Rix told me, 
he introduced me punctiliously to every 
body as “ My granddaughter. Miss Picardy.” 

Some of them looked surprised, and some 


of them, I was sure, made under-toned com- 
ments upon me and my appearance ; but I 
did not care. If my grandfather was satis- 
fied, what did it matter ? 

The guests were not very interesting, nor 
could I understand how grown-up people 
should play with such deep earnestness at 
those games of cards, which at school, when 
we made up an occasional round game, I 
always found so supremely silly — sillier even 
than building card-houses. But I got a little 
quiet talk with Cousin Conrad, who, seeing 
I was dull, came up to me. By-aud-by the 
evening was over — this fii’st evening, never 
to be forgotten. 

When every body was gone, and we were 
saying good-night, my grandfather put his 
hand on my shoulder, and called Mrs. Rix. 

“ I do not presume to comprehend ladies’ 
costume, but it seems to me that this is a 
rather ‘ sad-colored robe,’ as Shakspeare has 
it, for so young a person. What say you, 
my dear, would you not prefer to look a lit- 
tle more — more like other young ladies V’ 

I winced. 

“Yes, indeed. General, she ought,” said 
Mrs. Rix. “ I have been thinking all even- 
ing, only I did not quite know how to say it, 
that if Miss Picardy were dressed — as Miss 
Picardy — that is, if you would allow me to 
take her to a proper Bath dress-maker — ” 

But my pride was up. “ Thank you ; I 
prefer to wait till my mother comes. It is 
she who always chooses my clothes.” 

“As you please. Good-night,” said my 
grandfather, shortly, as he took up his can- 
dle and disappeared. 

Cousin Conrad gave me a look, a very kind 
one, yet it seemed to “ call me to order,” al- 
most like one of my mother’s. Was my pride 
right or wrong ? What must I do ? 

“ Follow him,” whispered Major Picardy, 
and I obeyed. I hope it is not a startling 
confession, but there have been very few 
people in my life whom I either could or 
would “ obey.” 

I followed the old man, walking feebly 
down stairs, and touched him. 

“ I beg your pardon, I — ” 

“ Pray do not apologize. I merely asked 
you to give me the x)leasure of seeing you 
dressed as becomes your position — my posi- 
tion, I mean — and you declined. It does 
not matter.” 

“ It does matter, since I have vexed you. 

I could not help it. Don’t you see, Sir, that 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


53 


I have got no money ? How can I go and 
buy new clothes 

He looked puzzled, but a little less se- 
vere. 

“ Why, child, surely you understood that 
— but it is of no consequence whether I am 
pleased or not.” 

“ It is of consequence.” 

To me, perhaps. I do not flatter myself 
it can be so to either you or your mother.” 

Was this speech ironical? Did it infer 
any ill feeling toward my mother ? If so, I 
must speak out. I must make him see clear- 
ly on what terms we stood. 

^^Sir,” I said, looking him boldly in the 
face, “ I am seventeen years old, and I never 
saw you, never even heard of you, till a few 
weeks ago. My mother has brought me up 
entirely. I am what I am, my mother’s 
child, and I can not be different. Are you 
ashamed of me ?” 

He looked, not at me, for he had turned 
his back upon me, but at my reflection on 
the mirror opposite — a figure which startled 
even myself, it stood so tall and proud. 

“ Ashamed of you ? No.” 

“ One word more : do you expect me to 
be ashamed of my mother ?” 

Here I felt my hand caught with a warn- 
ing pressure, and Cousin Conrad joined us ; 
coming, with his winning smile, right be- 
tween my grandfather and me. 

“ Is it not rather too late at night to 
begin any unnecessary conversation ? The 
whole question lies in a nutshell. Cousin 
Elma. A young lady from the country 
comes to visit her grandfather. She is, of 
course, a little behind the fashion, and as 
her srandfather wishes her to take the head 

o 

of his table” (I started at this news), “ he 
naturally wishes her to be dressed accord- 
ing- to la mode — is not that the word ? — like 
other ladies of her age and station. He has 
a right to bestow, and she to accept, this or 
any other kindness. I am sure Mrs. Picardy 
would approve. Every wise mother knows 
that it is unwise for any young girl, in any 
society, to look peculiar.” 

“ Do I look peculiar ?” . 

“ Very. Quite unlike any girl I ever 
saw.” 

“ Is that meant for civility or incivility, 
Conrad?” said my grandfather, laughing; 
for, in truth, there was no resisting that 
charming way Cousin Conrad had of smooth- 
ing down people — half in jest, half in earnest. 


“ Then, Elma, we will make you like other 
girls, if we can, to-morrow. Now, good- 
night.” 

A dismissal — decided, though kindly. Ev- 
idently my grandfather disliked arguments 
and “ scenes.” He preferred the comic to 
the tragic side of life — in fact, like most 
men, he could not endure being bothered,” 
would do or suffer a great evil to avoid a 
small annoyance. So Cousin Conrad that 
night told me ; and so I found out for my- 
self by-and-by. 

At present there was nothing for me to do 
but to creep up stairs, rather crest-fallen, and 
find Mrs. Rix waiting to conduct me to my 
room, where she staid talking a terribly long 
time, advising me, in elderly and matronly 
fashion, about the life into which I was about 
to x>hinge. She seemed to take it for grant- 
ed I was to be a long time in Bath ; and she 
impressed upon me the necessity of doing as 
other x>eople did, and dressing as other peo- 
ple dressed, and, above all, of trying to 
please my grandfather. 

“ For he is an odd man, a very odd man, 
my dear. I have seen very little of him of 
late years, but quite enough to find out that. 
Until he invited me here he never even told 
me his son had been married, so that to 
make your acquaintance was a pleasant sur- 
prise, Miss Picardy. You must introduce 
me to Mrs. Picardy. How soon she must 
have become a widow ! And where did she 
come from ? And what was her maiden 
name ?” 

‘‘ My mother was a Miss Dedman. She 
was born in Bath,” was all I answered to 
these and several more inquisitive ques- 
tions. 

“ And she will be here, I trust, before I 
leave ? Most likely you will both stay with 
the General for some time ? A capital ar- 
rangement. He has lots of money to leave, 
if he has not left it already to Major Picardy, 
who gets the landed estate. He is very fond 
of Cousin Conrad ; still, he might grow fond- 
er of you, and if he were to alter his will in 
your favor — ” 

“ I should despise him !” 

I stamped with my foot — my tears burst 
forth ; I could not help it — I had been so 
overexcited that day. And then to be told 
calmly that I was to stay here in order to 
worm myself into the old man’s good graces, 
and supplant Cousin Conrad ! What a hor- 
rid idea ! what a humiliating position ! I 


54 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


felt incliued to run away that minute, even 
though it was the middle of the night — ^rim 
away hack to my mother. 

The whole thing was so different from 
what I had been used to. Mrs. Rix, who 
talked very little before my grandfather and 
Cousin Conrad, when she talked to me ex- 
hibited her true self, so exceedingly small 
and worldly-minded, that all my i)lea8ant 


sensations faded out, and I began to feel as 
if I had got into an atmosphere where I 
could not breathe properly. When I shut 
the door upon her, showing her politely out 
— not much to her regret, for though I 
checked them at once, she had been quite 
frightened at my tears — I threw myself for- 
lornly down upon the bed, and cried like a 
child for my mother. 




CHAPTER VII. 



In spite of my protest that if my mother 
(lid not come to me I should go to her di- 
rectly, two or three weeks slipped by ; she 
did not come, yet I did not go. She kept 
putting me off from day to day, assuring me 
tliat till she could walk well she was far 
happier in small rooms than large, and Mrs. 
Golding was most devoted to her, which I 
could well believe. Every body loved to 
serve my 'mother. 

‘‘Besides,” she argued, “if your grand- 
father wishes to keep you, stay. It is your 
duty, as well as your pleasure, to please him 
in all possible ways.” 

Therefore I found she quite agreed with 
Cousin Conrad in condemning me for being 
so proud about accepting kindnesses ; she 


said I ought to wear my new clothes grate- 
fully and gayly, and sent a polite message 
herself to Mrs. Kix for the care bestowed on 
my toilet. My dear mother ! Not a word 
of hers expressed or betrayed the slightest 
pain or jealousy ; not a hint ever suggested 
that, while I was happy and merry, the 
petted child of the house, for whom every 
body was planning enjoyments all day long, 
she was left alone to spend long, dull days, 
with little to do, and nothing to amuse her, 
except reading my letters and answering 
them. 

I have all hers, written daily ; an extrava- 
gance of postage which was made practica- 
ble by Cousin Conrad’s providing me with 
no* end of franks. They are almost the only 
letters she ever wrote me, and I read them 
over still sometimes, with a full heart. A 
little formal they may be — most people 
wrote formally in those days — but they are 
charming letters, with her heart, the moth- 
er’s heart, at the core of all. She told me 
every thing, as I her ; so that while our 
personal separation was hard, there was a 
strange new delight in reading, as in writ- 
ing, the visible words of love. Besides, to 
recount the day’s history at night was as 
good as living it over again. 

And what a life it was ! even externally ; 
full of endless amusement, with all the at- 
tractions of luxury and refinement. I fell 
into it as naturally as if it had always been 
mine. “ The Picardy blood,” I supposed ; 
until Cousin Conrad laughed at me for saying 
this, and assigning it as a reason for feeling 
so much at home, as content in a large house 
as in a small one, with riches as with pov- 
erty. 

“ No,” said he, gravely and gently, as if he 



56 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


thought ho had hurt me, ‘‘the real reason is 
because i)overty and riches are only outside 
things. The true you — Elma Picardy — is 
the same through both, and unaifected by 
either.’' 

What did affect me, then ? What made 
me feel as if I saw a new heaven and a new 
earth, where every body walked up and 
down like angels ? — and they were as good 
as angels, some of them. For me — I never 
thought if I were good or bad ; I did not 
think much about myself at all. I was 
happy, but if any body had asked me why, 
I could not have told. The strangest thing 
was, my being hapx)y away from my mother ; 
but then she was happy too — she assured 
me of that — and she knew every thing that 
hai)pened to me, day after day. 

It was a curious life, regular even in its 
dissipation. The only inmates of that large 
house were my grandfather, Mrs. Rix, and 
myself. Cousin Conrad lodged in Marlbor- 
ough Buildings, close by. But he usually 
met us every morning at the Pump Room, 
again in the afternoon promenade round 
Sydney Gardens, or up and down our own 
Crescent, the most favorite lounge of all. 
And he always dined with us, he alone gen- 
erally ; for there was little dinner-giving at 
Bath then, but every body went out of an 
evening. Besides small parties at private 
houses, the Assembly Rooms were thronged 
every night. Tliere were the ordinary balls, 
beginning at seven and ending at eleven ; 
and the dress balls, which were kept up an 
hour later, when, as twelve o’clock struck, 
the master of the ceremonies would hold out 
Ills w^atch to the band ; instantly the music 
stopped, and the dancers disappeared, as if 
over them hung the doom of Cinderella. 

At least so Mrs. Rix told me, for I myself 
did not go to these balls ; my grandfather 
said I was too young. But I was taken to 
the dancing practice, where, on stated after- 
noons, the young gentlemen and ladies for 
miles round came to the rooms, to be in- 
structed in quadrilles and country-dances, 

and those new round dances, now all the 

> ' 

fashion, of which Mrs. Rix much disap- 
proved ; I too. The exercise was charming, 
but to have people’s arms round my waist 
Avas not pleasant — never could have been, I 
thought, unless I were dancing with some 
one very near, and dear, and kind. 

On the whole, I liked best the quiet social 
evenings, at home or abroad, when my gram.!- 


father and Mrs. Rix played cards, and I wan- 
dered about the room, sometimes alone, 
sometimes Avith Cousin Conrad, who, like my 
grandfather, knew and was known by every 
body. Though he was not a great talker, ' 
and cared neither for cards nor dancing, he 
was very popular ; and so many sought his 
company that I ahvays felt pleased and 
grateful when he sought mine. 

These evenings always ended at ten o’clock, 
when we went home, in sedan-chairs on wet 
nights ; but when it was fine, Ave walked 
back to Royal Crescent, cloaked and hooded, 
as Avas the fashion of many ladies. Indeed, 
one ancient dame used to boast that she oft- 
en marched, with all her diamonds on, at- 
tended only by her maid, the whole way 
from her house in Norfolk Crescent to the 
Assembly Rooms. 

Mrs. Rix was not brave enough for that, 
so she and the General had each a chair. 
Cousin Conrad and I walking after them. 
How pleasantly the fresh night air used to 
blow through circus and square ; how pretty 
even the common streets looked, with their 
lines of lamps ; and hoAv grandly solemn Avas 
the sky overhead, 

“Thick inlaid with patines of bright gold!’' 

He used often to say that line to me, with 
many others, for he was a great lover of 
Shakspeare and other old writers, of whom I 
knew almost nothing. Memory fails me a 
little for modern poetry, but I think I could 
remember most of that even now. 

We also used to study a little astronomy, 
which was a hobby of his, acquired in long 
night marches and campings out. I learned 
all the constellations and their names, and a 
good deal besides. There was one particular 
planet, I remember, Avhich night after night 
used to rise over Beechen Cliff. I called it 
“ my star,” at which Major Picardy smiled, 
and said it was Jupiter, the most prosperous 
star of any, astrologers believed, and that I 
should have a most fortunate and happy 
life. I laughed, and believed it all. 

As I soon found out, I Avas, compared with 
him, exceedingly ill-educated. This Avas not 
my mother’s fault, but my own. Beyond 
exacted lessons, I had neA’cr cared to study 
or to read. Now I felt my own ignorance 
painfully, horribly. My grandfather had a 
good library, and one dajq when Cousin 
Conrad found me hunting there, he volun- 
teered to choose some books for me. After 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


57 


that, he used to talk to me about them, and 
many a time when the young gentlemen of 
Bath were whi8i)eriug nonsense to me — 
which they did very often — I used to grow 
very weary of them, and keep thinking all 
the time of what I had been reading that 
morning, and what Cousin Conrad would 
say about it when we walked home togeth- 
er at night, under the stars. 

Those wondrous stars ! those delicious 
moonlights! that cool, scented, summer dark, 
perhaps better than either ! I was only a girl 
then, only seventeen. Now I am — no matter 
what. But to this day, if I chance to walk 
home of a May night, after a party, the old 
time comes back again, and the old feeling — 
the feeling that life was such a grand and 
beautiful thing, with so much to do, perhaps 
also to suffer ; only suffering looked heroic 
and sweet, especially if borne for some one 
else. The bliss of making unheard-of sac- 
rifices for those one loved haunted me con- 
tinually ; indeed, self-martyrdom seemed the 
utmost joy of existence. For instance, I re- 
member one bleak night silently placing 
myself as a barrier — oh, what a terrible one I 
— between a fierce north wind and a person 
to whom it was very hurtful to catch cold. 
I caught cold, of course, but whether I saved 
that other person is doubtful. No matter. 
Some people might laugh at me; I have 
never laughed at myself. 

I record these times and these feelings, 
because many a girl may recognize them as 
her own experience too. It is nothing to be 
ashamed of, though it does not always bring 
happiness. But, I repeat, there are in life 
more things — possibly better things — than 
happiness. 

When I say I was happy, it was in a way 
rather different from the calm enjoyment I 
had with my mother. Little things gave me 
the keenest joy ; other things, equally and 
ludicrously little, the sharpest pain. For 
instance, one day, when Mrs. Rix said at 
table that I was becoming “the belle of 
Bath,” and my grandfather laughed, and 
Cousin Conrad said — nothing at all! Did 
he think I liked it ? that I cared for being 
admired and flattered, and talked nonsense 
to, or for any thing but being loved ?— as, it 
sometimes seemed, they were all beginning 
to love me at Royal Crescent. Even my 
grandfather, besides that chivalrous polite- 
ness which was his habit toward all women, 
began to treat me with a personal tender- 


ness very sweet, always ending by saying I 
was “ every inch a Picardy.” Which was 
one of the very few things I did not repeat 
to my mother. 

My darling mother ! All this time I had 
never seen her. Cousin Conrad had. He 
rode over twice or thrice, bringing me back 
full news ; but though my grandfather said 
“ I might have the carriage whenever I liked 
to go home for a few hours,” somehow I nev- 
er did get it, and was afraid to ask for it. 
Since, kind as the General was, he always 
liked to bestow kindnesses, and not to be 
asked for them. 

So time passed. Bath became very hot 
and relaxing, as is usual in spring; and 
either with that, or the constant excitement, 
my strength flagged, my spirits became va- 
riable. 

“ Is she quite well ?” I overheard Cousin 
Conrad asking Mrs. Rix one day ; when 1 
answered sharply for myself that I was 
“ perfectly well, only a little tired.” 

“Of what? Dissipation, or* of us all? 
My child” — he often addressed me so, quite 
paternally — “ would you like to go back to 
your mother ?” 

A sudden “stound,” whether of joy or 
pain I knew not, came over me. I paused a 
minute, and then said, “ Yes.” Immediately 
afterward, for no cause at all, I began to cry. 

“ She certainly is not strong, and ought 
not to have too much dissipation,” said Mrs. 
Rix, much troubled. “ Oh, dear me ! and it 
was only this morning that the General ask- 
ed me to arrange about taking her to her 
first public ball.” 

“ Her first ball !” 

“ My first ball !” 

Cousin Conrad and I were equally aston- 
ished — whether equally pleased, I could not 
tell. 

“Well, it is natural your grandfather 
should have changed his mind. I don’t 
wonder that he wishes to see the ^coming 
out’ — is not that what you girls call it ? — of 
the last of his race, to witness the triumph 
of another ‘ beautiful Miss Picardy.’ ” 

I looked at him reproachfully. “ Cousin 
Conrad ! are you going to talk nonsense too?” 

“ It is not nonsense. I was merely stating 
a fact,” said he, smiling. “ But I beg your 
pardon.” 

It is strange how often we think lightly 
of the gifts we have, and wish for those 
which Providence has denied. Often, when 


58 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


there were a knot of silly young fellows hov- 
ering round me, I thought how much bet- 
ter than being merely pretty would it have 
been to be clever and accomplished, able to 
understand the books Cousin Conrad read, 
and talk with him in his own way. I was 
so afraid he despised me, and this last re- 
mark convinced me of it. My heart sank 
with shame, and I thought how willingly 
one would give away all one’s beauty — ay, 
and youth too, only that goes fast enough — 
to become a sensible, educated woman. 
Such are really valuable, and valued. 

We were all three walking up and down 
the grassy terrace of a house where my 
grandfather had come to call, leaving us to 
amuse ourselves outside, as it was a most 
beautiful place, centuries old. Every body 
about Bath knows St. Katherine’s Court. 
As it happens, I have never seen it since 
that day, but I could remember every bit of 
its lovely garden — the fountain that trick- 
led from the rocky hill above, the cows feed- 
ing in the green valley below, and the tiny 
gray church on one side. 

“ I should like to show you the church. 
It dates long before the Reformation, and is 
very curious. Will you come, Mrs. Rix, or 
would you rather sit still here ?” 

As Major Picardy might have known she 
would, which I myself did not regret. She 
was a kind soul, but she never understood 
in the least the things that we used to talk 
about, and so she often left us alone. Very 
dull indeed to her would have been our 
speculations about the old carved pulpit, 
and who had preached in it ; the yew-trees 
in the church-yard, which might have fur- 
nished bows for the men who fought at Bos- 
worth Field. I tried hard to improve my 
mind by listening to what Cousin Conrad 
said. He had such an easy, kind way of 
giving information that one took it in, 
scarcely fancying one was learning at all. 
Soon I quite forgot my wounded feelings, 
my fear of his contempt for a poor girl who 
had nothing in the world to recommend her 
except her beauty. 

Suddenly he turned round and asked me 
why I had been so vexed with him about the 
ball. Did I dislike going ? 

No, I liked it very much. 

“ Then why were you offended with me ? 
Was it because I called you ‘ the beautiful 
Miss Picardy ?’ ” 

He had guessed my thoughts, as he often 


did, just like a magician. I hung my head. 
“I thought you were laughing at me, or 
despising me. It is such a contemptible 
thing to be only pretty. Oh, I wish I could 
be ugly for a week !” 

He smiled. “ But only for a week. You 
would soon be glad to turn back into your 
old self again, and so would others. Believe 
me, beauty is always a blessing, and not 
necessarily harmful. The loveliest woman 
I ever beheld was also the best.” 

Who could that be ? His mother, or — 
no, I had never heard of his having a sister. 
Still I did not like to ask. 

“ I would not speak of her to every body,” 
continued he, in a rather hesitating tone, 
suddenly sitting down. He had a habit of 
turning pale and sitting down, invalid fash- 
ion, though he always refused to be called 
an invalid. “ But I should like to speak of 
her to you sometimes, for you remind me of 
her in your height and the color of your 
hair; though I think — yes, I am quite sure 
— that on the whole you are less handsome 
than she. Still, it is, the same kind of beauty, 
aud I like to look at it.” 

He paused, and I sat still, waiting for 
what was coming next ; so still that a lit- 
tle sparrow came and hopped in at the 
church door, looked at us, and hopped out 
again. 

“ I do not know if you will uuderstand 
these things, you are still such a child ; but, 
once upon a time, I was engaged to be mar- 
ried.” 

I started a little. Since my first romantic 
speculations concerning him — making him 
the hero of some melancholy history — Cousin 
Conrad and his marrying had quite gone out 
of my head. He was just himself — a gentle- 
man of what to me seemed middle age, five- 
and-thirty probably — always kind aud good 
to me, aud to every young lady he knew, 
but never in the slightest degree “paying 
attention” to any body. And he had been 
“engaged to be married.” Consequently 
“ in love.” (For I had no idea that the two 
things are not always synonymous.) I felt 
very strange, but I tried not to show it. 

“ It was before I went to India,” he con- 
tinued. “ I was only three-and-twenty, and 
she was twenty-one. She had every thing 
that fortune could give. I too, except per- 
haps money. But she had that as well ; so 
we did not mind. An honest man, who 
really loves a woman, and gives her all he 


MY MOTHER AND L 


59 



has to give, need not mind, though she is rich 
and he is poor. Do you not think so 
Yes.” 

“ One only trouble we had ; she was del- 
icate in health. I knew I should always 
have to take care of her. I did so already, 
for she had no mother. She was an orphan, 
and had been a ward of Chancery. The 
lady who lived with her was a sister of Mrs. 
Rix.” 

“ Mrs. Rix I She never said a word.” 

“ Oh no,” with a sad kind of smile ; it is 
so long ago ; every body has forgotten ex- 
cept me. I think I am one of those people 
who can not forget. Still, I have come to 
Bath ; I have gone over the same walks ; I 


have been to a party at the same house-— 
I mean the house where she lived, and from 
which she was to have been married.” 

^‘TFas to have been ?” asked I beneath my 
breath. 

It was only two weeks before the day. 
We were both so young and happy — we 
liked dancing so much — we wanted to have 
a good dance together in these Assembly 
Rooms. We had it ; and then she would 
walk home. It was May, but you know 
how sharp the winds come round street cor- 
ners here. She caught cold ; in a week she 
died.” 

Died! So young, so happy, so well be- 
loved I Poor girl ! Fortunate girl ! 




CO 


]MY MOTHER AND I. 


I could not weep for her; something lay 
heavy on my heart, seemed to freeze up my 
tears. But I sat quiet, keeping a reverent 
silence toward a grief which he had thought 
I could not “ understand.” 

Cousin Conrad had told his story very 
calmly, letting fall the brief words one by 
one, in the same mechanical tone ; so that 
any body who did not know him would 
have thought he felt nothing. What a 
mistake ! 

We sat several minutes without speaking ; 
and then, with a sudden impulse of compas- 
sion, I touched his hand. He pressed mine 
warmly. 

‘‘ Thauk you. I thought, Cousin Elma, 
we should be better friends after this than 
even before. You will understand that mine 
has not been an altogether bright life — like 
yours, for instance ; indeed, mine seems half 
over when yours is scarcely begun. Nor is 
it likely to be a very long life, the doctors 
say ; so I must put as much into it as I pos- 
sibly can. As much work, I mean. For 
happiness — ” 

He stopped. I can see him now, sitting 
with hands folded and eyes looking straight 
before him — grave, steady, fearless eyes, with 
a touch of melancholy in them — but nothing 
either morbid, or bitter, or angry. Such 
would have been impossible to a nature like 
his. 

‘‘ Happiness must take its ehance. I nei- 
ther seek it nor refuse it. Nor have I been, 
I hope, altogether unhappy hitherto. I have 
always found identy to do, besides my pro- 
fession.” 

I knew that. It had sometimes made me 
almost angry to learn, through Mrs. Rix, the 
endless calls u'pon him — his health, his time, 
aud his money — by helpless people, who are 
sure to find out and hang upon a solitary 
man, who has the character of being unself- 
ish and ready to help every body. When I 
looked at him, and thought of all that, aud 
of the grief that had fallen upon his life, 
which, falling upon most men, would have 
made it a blank life forever, I felt — no, it is 
not necessary to say what I felt. 

There is a quality called hero-worship. It 


does not exist in every body ; and some peo- 
ple say that it is scarcely to be desired, as 
causing little bliss and much bale; but to 
those who possess it, and who have found 
objects whereon to expend it, it is an ecstasy 
worth any amount of pain. 

Though all the world had seemed to swim 
round me for a minute or two, aud Cousin 
Conrad’s quiet voice went through me, word 
by word, like a sharp knife — still, I slowly 
got right again. I saw the blue sky out 
through the church door, and heard a lark 
in the air, singing high up, like an in- 
visible voice — the voice, I could have fan- 
cied, of that girl, so long dead, who had j^een 
so happy before she died. Happy, to an ex- 
tent and in a sort of way, of which the full 
sweetness had never dawned upon me till 
now. 

To be “ in love,” as silly people phrase it 
— to love, as wise and good people have 
loved — my mother, for instance — I seemed 
all at once to understand what it was ; ay, 
in spite of Cousin Conrad. And, with that 
knowledge, to understand something else, 
which frightened me. 

However, I had sense enough to drive that 
back, for the time being, into the inmost re- 
cesses of my heart, and to answer him when, 
after sitting a minute or two longer, he 
proposed that we should go back to Mrs. 
Rix, with my ordinary “ Yes.” He always 
laughed at these “Yes’s” or “Noes,” which 
he declared formed the staple of my conver- 
sation with him or my grandfather. Only, 
as we went out, I said, in a whisper, “ Would 
you mind telling me her name ?” 

“ Agnes.” 

So we went back to the carriage, and 
drove home ; and I think nobody would have 
known that any thing had happened. 

But little things make great changes some- 
times. When I went into the tiny gray 
church, Mrs. Rix had laughed at the way I 
bounded down the hilly terrace, called me 
“such a child!” — no wonder the General 
thought I was “ too young” to go to the As- 
semblies. When I came out again I felt 
quite an old person — old enough to go to 
twenty balls. 



9 

CHAPTER VIII. 


There came upon me a great craving to 
see my mother. Not that I wished to tell 
her any thing — indeed, what had I to tell ? 
In writing about that afternoon at St. Kath- 
erine’s Court, I merely described the house, 
the garden, and the old gray church. What 
had passed therein I thought I had no right 
— I had certainly no desire — to speak of, not 
even to my mother ; and from the complete 
silence which followed — Cousin Conrad nev- 
er referred to it again — it seemed after a day 
or two almost like a story heard in a dream. 

But a dream that never could he forgot- 
ten. A young girl seldom does forget the 
first time she comes face to face with a love- 
story — not in a book, hut in real life ; meets 
and sympathizes with those who have actu- 
ally felt all that she has been mistily think- 
ing about. 

Whenever Cousin Conrad looked at me, 
as he did sometimes, in a very tender, wist- 
ful way, as if seeing in my face some reflec- 
tion of the one long hidden under a coffin- 
lid, I used to ponder on all he had gone 
through, wondering how he had ever borne 
it and lived. But he had lived up to five- 
and-thirty a useful and honored life ; and 
though he had hinted it might not be a long 
one, probably on account of that sad taint in 
our vaunted Picardy blood — consumption — 
still there seemed no reason why he should 
fear or hope — did he hope ? — for its ending. 
Cheerful he was — cheerful, calm, busy ; was 
he also happy? Was it possible he ever 
could be happy ? Endlessly I used to pon- 
der over him and her, and on the brief time 
of love they had had together; and then, 
overcome with an unaccountable sadness, I 
used to turn to thinking of my mother. 

If I could only go to her ! lay my head on 


her shoulder, and feel how entirely she loved 
me — me only out of the whole world. And 
it seemed as if I had a little neglected her 
of late, and allowed other people to absorb 
me too much. Had she guessed this ? Did 
she fancy I loved her less? I would soon 
show her she was mistaken. As soon as ever 
my grandfather would allow me, I would 
go back to the two dear little rooms in our 
quiet village, and be as merry and happy as 
if I had never gone away — never known any 
thing beyond the peaceful life when she and 
I were all in all to one another. We were 
so still, only — 

. Was there any thing in that “ only” which 
made me stop and examine myself sharply ? 
Does there not come a time to the most lov- 
ing of children when they begin to feel a 
slight want, when parents and home are not 
quite sufficient to them ? They can no lon- 
ger lie all day, infant-like, on the mother’s 
breast, and see no heaven beyond her face. 
Other faces grow pleasant, other interests 
arisel! It seems difficult to content one’s self 
with the calm level of domestic life, with its 
small daily pleasures and daily pains. They 
want something larger — grander. They are 
continually expecting some unknown felic- 
ity, or arming themselves against some he- 
roic anguish, so delicious that they almost 
revel in the prospect of woe. 

This state of feeling is natural, and there- 
fore inevitable. If recognized as such by 
both parents and children, it harms neither, 
is met, and passed by. 

If I could have gone to my mother ! Aft- 
erward the hinderances to this looked so 
small; at the time they seemed gigantic. 
First, Mrs. Rix, with her preoccupation about 
my toilet and her own at my first ball, which 




MY MOTHER AND I. 


62 ' 

was to happen in a few days. Then, my 
grandfather’s dislike to have any thing sug- 
gested to him, even to the use of his car- 
riage, except hy Cousin Conrad, to whom 
the whole household were in the habit of 
applying in all difficulties, who arranged ev- 
ery thing, and thought of every body ; but 
he was absent — gone to London on some 
troublesome law business, somebody else’s 
business, of course. 

“ I can’t tell why,” he said, smiling, “ ex- 
cept that it is from my being so alone in the 
world, but I seem fated to be every body’s 
guardian, every body’s trustee. Take care ; 
perhaps your grandfather may make me 
yours, and then what a handful I shall have! 
and how tightly I shall hold you, like one 
of the cruel guardians in story-books — espe- 
cially when yon want to marry I No, no, 
my child, seriously, I will let you marry any 
body you please.” 

Thank you,” I said, laughing. He did 
not know he had hurt me. 

We missed him much out of the house, 
even for a few days. If he had been there, 
I should easily have got to see my mother. 
As it was, there seemed no way, except 
starting to walk the seven miles alone ; 
and I doubted if either she or Cousin Con- 
rad would have approved of that step : it 
would have seemed so disrespectful to my 
grandfather. 

'J’hus it came to pass that a fifth week was 
added to the four, and still I had not seen 
my mother. 

I wished, though, that she could have seen 
me when I was dressed for the ball ; I knew 
it would have made her happy. That wag. 
my consolation for not feeling quite so happy 
myself when it came to the point, as I sup- 
posed all young girls ought to feel on such an 
occasion. How she would have admired the 
white silk festooned with white roses, in 
which I stood like a statue while Mrs. Rix 
and her maid dressed me — not half grateful 
enough, I fear, for their care ; for I was 
thinking of something else all the time — 
thinking of that girl “Agnes,” scarcely older 
than myself, who, probably in some house 
close by, had once been dressed for one of 
these very Assemblies. So young, so happy ; 
yes, I was sure she had been happy ; and I 
sighed, and my white silk looked dull, and 
my white roses faded, and that nameless de- 
spondency to which the young are so prone 
fell upon me like a cloud, till Mrs. Rix said. 


kind soul, “ There now ; I wish your mother 
could see you.” 

The mention of my mother nearly made 
me burst out crying. Crying when one is 
dressed for one’s first ball I What a strange 
girl I must have been ! 

“ Come now, my dear, and let your grand- 
father look at you.” 

He quite started when I came into his 
room, regarded me intently, then made me 
walk to and fro, which I did — as grave and 
dignified as even he could desire. I was 
not shy, but rather indifferent, feeling as if 
it mattered little who looked at me. 

“ Yes, that will do, Elma ; you gratify me 
much. All the daughters of our house have 
been noted for their beauty. This genera- 
tion will be no exception to the rule. I 
wish I were well enough to witness the d4- 
hut to-night of another beautiful Miss Pic- 
ardy.” 

I smiled. There was no uncomfortable 
flattery in my grandfather’s grand polite- 
ness ; it was the mere announcement of a 
fact. I said nothing. What value was my 
beauty to me, except that it pleased him — 
and my mother ? 

“ Yes, you are quite right. General, and I 
am sure the Major would say the same if he 
were here ; but I suppose nothing would have 
persuaded him to accompany us.” 

“ No, Mrs. Rix ; you are aware that he has 
never been to a ball since the death of Miss 
Frere.” 

“ Oh, poor Miss Frere ! How much he was 
attached to her, and she to him ! My sister 
has told me all about it. A sad story. Miss 
Picardy, which I will tell you while we are 
having our tea, if you will remind me.” 

Which I did not do. 

“Elma,” said my grandfather, as he sat 
watching me, looking more benign than I 
had ever seen him, “ you may like to read 
this before you go.” 

It was a letter from my mother, by which 
I found that he had politely urged her com- 
ing to see my introduction into society. She 
excused herself, but promised, if she felt well 
enough, to pay her long-promised visit “in 
a few days.” 

Then I should have my mother, and I need 
not go away! In a moment my variable 
spirits rose, and the confused sense of pain 
which was so new to me slipped away. As 
I wrapped my beautiful white cloak round 
me, and caught sight of myself in the mirror 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


63 


on the stairs, I knew I was, on the whole, 
not unpleasant to look at, and was glad to 
please even the three women-servants who 
came to peep at me in the hall. 

There was another person entering it, who 
stopped to look too. He seemed tired with 
traveling, but in his face was the familiar 
smile. Kind Cousin Conrad! every body 
was delighted to see him. 

“ I am not quite too late, I see. All the 
world seems collected to behold your splen- 
dors, Cousin Elma. May not I V’ 

He gently put aside my cloak. My heart 
was beating fast with the surprise of seeing 
him, but I stood quite still and silent for him 
to examine my dress and me. 

“ Thank you,” he said, with the slightest 
possible sigh. “You look very nice. Now 
let me put you into your chaise.” As he 
did so, he said, gently, “Be happy, child. 
Go and enjoy yourself.” 

So I did, to a certain extent. How could 
it be otherwise with a girl of seventeen, who 
loved dancing with all her heart, and had no 
end of partners, some of whom danced ex- 
ceedingly well ? Good and bad dancers was 
the only distinction between them — to me. 
For all else they might have been automa- 
tons spinning round on two legs. Their 
faces I scarcely looked at. The only face I 
saw was one which was not there. 

How tired Cousin Conrad had looked! 
Sad too. Had the sight of me in my ball 
dress reminded him of old times — of his 
'V best-beloved Agnes ? All through the whirl 
j|B. of light and music and dancing I had in my 
' mind’s eye the picture of those two as they 
II ^ must have looked, dancing together at their 
; last ball; but I thought of one not wholly 
with pity, but envy. 

Still I danced on — danced with every 
body that asked me. My feet were light 
enough, though my heart felt sometimes a 
! little heavy, and I rather wondered why 
girls thought a ball-room such a paradise ; 
B ^ until, crossing through the crowd of figures, 
;|Jt'all alike either unknown or indifferent to 
I me, I saw one whom I knew. The slight 

I stoop, the head with its short crisp curls, 

; the grave quiet eyes, and wondrously beau- 
tiful smile, how the sight of him changed 
all the aspect of the room ! 

It was very kind of Cousin Conrad to 
i come. This sense of his excessive kindness 
1 was my first thought, and then another sense 
( of comfort and enjoyment, such as I used to 


feel when my mother was by. I could not 
go to him — I was dancing ; but I watched 
him go to Mrs. Rix, and they both stood 
watching me, I saw, until they fell into con- 
versation, and did not notice me at all. Then 
I noticed them. 

It is an odd sensation trying to view as 
with the eyes of a stranger some one whom 
you know intimately. Many gentlemen in 
the room were taller, handsomer, younger 
than Cousin Conrad ; but somehow he was 
Cousin Conrad, just himself, and different 
from them all. 

I wondered what he and Mrs. Rix were 
talking about: ordinary things, probably. 
She would not surely be so tactless, so cruel, 
as to wonder at his coming to-night, or to 
remind him of the last night he was here, 
when he danced with Miss Frere as his part- 
ner — just as one Sir Thomas Appleton (I had 
good cause to remember his name afterward) 
was dancing with me. Oh no! not so. I 
cared nothing for Sir Thomas Appleton. If 
I had been dancing with any one I loved, as 
Agnes loved Cousin Conrad, how different it 
would have been ! Yet he had said I “ did 
not understand.” 

He was right. I did not understand — not 
fully. I had no idea whither I was drift- 
ing, no more than has a poor little boa-t 
launched on a sunshiny lake without helm 
or oars, which goes on floating, floating as 
it can only float, toward the great open sea. 
There had come a curious change in me, a 
new interest into my life, a new glory over 
my world. It was strange, very strange, 
but the whole room looked different, now 
Cousin Conrad was there. 

Imlac, in Easselas, says (a trite and often- 
quoted but most true saying), “Many per- 
sons fancy themselves in love, when in fact 
they are only idle ;” and therefore, for all 
young people, idleness is the thing most to 
be avoided, since the sham of love, coming 
prematurely, is of all things the most con- 
temptible and dangerous. But some peo- 
ple never “ fall in love” at all ; they walk 
into it blindfold, and then wake suddenly, 
with wide-open eyes, to find that all the 
interest of life is concentrated in one per- 
son, whom they believe, truly or not, to be 
the best person they ever knew, and whom 
they could no more help loving than they 
could help loving the sun for shining on 
them, and the air for giving them where- 
withal to breathe. This is not being “in 


64 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


love,” or being “made love to.” It is love, 
pure and simple, the highest thing, if often 
the saddest, which a woman’s heart can 
know. 

If I had been an angel looking down from 
the heights of Paradise upon another Elma 
Picardy, I might have sighed and said, 
“Poor child!” but I do not know that I 
should have tried to alter things in any way. 

The quadrille over. Sir Thomas Ai)pleton 
took me to Mrs. Rix, and stood talking with 
Cousin Conrad, whom he knew; so there 
was no exj)lanation, save a whisper from 
Mrs. Rix. 

“He says the General sent him. They 
thought you ought not to be here without 
some male relative, so he came.” 

“He is very kind,” said I; but I was a 
little vexed. In those days the one thing 
that sometimes vexed me in Cousin Conrad 
was his habit of doing first what he ought 
and next what he liked to do. I have lived 
long enough to see that the man who does 
first what he likes and then what he ought 
is of all men, not absolutely wicked, the most 
hopelessly unreliable. 

Cousin Conrad might have come to the 
ball from duty only, but I think he was not 
unhappy there. His good heart was strong 
enough to forget its own sorrows in others’ 
joys. Giving Mrs. Rix his arm, and consign- 
ing me to Sir Thomas, he led the way to the 
tea-room, and made us all sit down to one 
of those little tables at which people who 
liked one another’s company were accus- 
tomed to form a circle to themselves. His 
pleasant talk brightened us all. Then he 
proposed taking me round the rooms, and 
showing me every thing and every body. 

“ She is so young, with the world all be- 
fore her,” said he to Sir Thomas Appleton." 
“And it is such a wonderful, enjoyable 
world.” 

Ay, it was. As I went along, leaning on 
Cousin Conrad’s arm, and looking at all he 
showed me, I thought there never was such 
a beautiful ball. Cinderella’s, when the 
prince was dancing with her, was nothing 
to it ; only, unlike Cinderella, when twelve 
o’clock struck my white silk did not crumble 
into rags, my slippers did not drop off from 
my poor little feet. 

“ Well, it is over,” said I, with a little sigh. 

“ Yes, it is over,” echoed Sir Thomas; with 
a much bigger one. I had been again his 
partner, by his own earnest entreaty and 


Cousin Conrad’s desire, “that he might be 
able to tell my grandfather how well I could 
dance.” So I had danced, my very best too, 
knowing he was looking on, and was pleased 
with me. It made me pleased with myself, 
and not vexed, even when I heard people 
whispering after me, “ The beautiful Miss 
Picardy.” Had not Cousin Conrad said that 
the most beautiful person he ever knew was 
also the best ? 

I wondered if he were thinking of her 
now. From a certain expression in his face 
as he stood watching the quadrille, I fancied 
he was. Yes, he had truly said he was one 
of those who “ can not forget.” 

I also never forget. Many a ball have I 
been to in my life, but not one incident of 
this, my first, has vanished from my mem- 
ory. 

It was over at last, and I felt myself in 
the midst of a crowd of people pushing to- 
ward the door, with Cousin Conrad on one 
side of me, and Mrs. Rix on the other. Sir 
Thomas Appleton was behind. 

“ See,” said he, “ what a beautiful night 
it is ; ever so many are walking home ; will 
you walk home too. Miss Picardy ?” 

“No,” said Cousin Conrad, decidedly. 

He muffled me carefully up, put me in a 
chair, did the same thing for Mrs. Rix, and 
then walked off down the street with some- 
body, I suppose Sir Thomas, but I really 
never noticed that poor young man. I doubt 
if I even bade him gooff-night. In five min- 
utes more he had gone out of my head as 
completely as if he had never existed. 

So much so, that when Mrs. Rix came into 
my room to talk over the ball, and asked me 
“ what I thought of him ?” I answered that 
I could not tell ; I had never thought about 
him at all. 

“ Never thought about him ! Such a rich, 
handsome, gentlemanly young man, just 
come into one of the finest estates in Somer- 
setshire. Well, you are the oddest girl I 
ever knew.” 

Was I? How? What could she mean? 
Surely I had not misbehaved myself, or been 
uncourteous in any way to this very respect- 
able gentleman ? But no ; he was Cousin 
Conrad’s friend, and Cousin Conrad had not 
blamed me in the least, but had met me at 
the door and parted from me with a kind 
good-night. He was not displeased with 
me. Then whatever Mrs. Rix meant or 
thought did not matter so very much. 



CHAPTER IX. 



It was just a week after the ball — a happy 
week ; for, as Mrs. Rix said, all the family 
seemed happier now Cousin Conrad had come 
back. 

We had missed him much. My grand- 
father was the sort of man who would he 
always autocrat absolute in his own house ; 
but Cousin Conrad was his prime minister. 
To him — the heir -presumptive, as every 
l)ody knew — came every body with their 
petitions, their difficulties, their cares. Far 
and near all helpless people claimed his 
lielp, all idle people his unoccupied time. 
His money, too. Moderate as his income 
was, he seemed always to have enough to 
give to those that needed it. But he iuva- 
E 


riably gave cautiously, and in general se- 
cretly ; so much so, that I have heard peo- 
ple call Major Picardy a rather “neaP^ man. 
How little they knew ! 

We missed him, I say, because he was the 
guiding spirit of the house. Guiding, for 
he never attempted to rule. Yet his light- 
est word was always obeyed, because we 
saw clearly that when he said, “ Do this,” 
he meant, “ Do it, not because I say so, but 
because it is right.” The right, followed 
unswervingly, unhesitatingly, and without 
an atom of selfishness or fear, was the pivot 
upon which his whole life turned. There- 
fore his influence, the divinest form of au- 
thority, was absolutely unlimited. 

Besides, as Mrs. Kix sometimes said to 
me — just as if I did not see it all! — he was 
“ so comfortable to live with.” In him were 
none of those variable moods of dullness, 
melancholy, or ill temper which men so 
often indulge in — moods which in a child 
we call “naughtiness,” and set the sinner in 
a corner with his face to the wall, or give 
him a good whipping and let him alone; 
but in his papa, or grandpapa, or uncle, we 
submit to as something charmingly inevita- 
ble, rather interesting than not, although 
the whole household is thereby victimized. 
But Cousin Conrad victimized no one; he 
was always sweet-tempered, cheerful, calm, 
and wise. His one great sorrow seemed to 
have swallowed up all lesser ones, so that 
the minor vexations of life could not afflict 
him any more. Or else it was because he, 
of all men I ever knew, lived the most in 
himself, and yet out of himself, and there- 
fore was able to see all things with larger, 
clearer eyes. Whether he knew this or not, 
whether he was proud or humble, as people 


66 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


count humility, I can not tell. No one could, 
because be never talked of bimself at all. 

Young as I was, I bad sense to see all tbis 
in bim, tbe first man with whom I was ever 
thrown in friendly relations; to see and — 
what does one do when one meets that 
which is perfectly lovable and admirable ? 
admire it ? love it ? No ; love is hardly tbe 
word for that kind of feeling. We adore. 

This did not strike me as remarkable, be- 
cause every body in degree did tbe same. 
Never was there a person better loved than 
be. And yet he gave bimself no pains to 
be popular. He seldom tried to please any 
body particularly, only to be steadily kind 
and simply good to every body. 

Good above all to me, unworthy ! Ob, so 
good ! 

Tbe one person whose opinion of bim I 
did not know was my mother’s, though be 
bad ridden over to see her, taking messages 
from me, almost every week. But she said 
little about bim, and I did not like to ask. 
One of tbe keenest pleasures I looked for- 
ward to in tbis her visit was, that she would 
then learn to know Cousin Conrad as I knew 
bim. Mrs. Rix said, as soon as my mother 
came to chaperon me, she should go to Chel- 
tenham. Then bow happy would we three 
be, walking, talking together, tbe best com- 
pany in tbe world ! 

For tbe first time in my life I thought 
without jealousy of my mother’s enjoying 
any body’s company but mine. Planning 
tbe days to come, which seemed to rise up 
one after the other, like the slope after slope 
of sunshiny green which melted into the 
blue sky at the top of Lansdowne Hill, I 
sat at my bedroom window, perhaps "the 
happiest girl in all Bath. 

Ah, pleasant city of Bath ! how sweet it 
looked to me then, a girl in my teens ! How 
sweet it looks still to me, an old woman ! 
Ay, though I walk its streets with tired feet, 
thinking of other feet that walk there no 
more, but in a far-away City which I see not 
yet, still dear to my heart, and fair to my 
eyes, is every nook and corner of that city, 
where I was so happy when I was young. 

Happy, even in such small things as my 
new dress, which I had been arranging for 
the evening. We went out so much that I 
should have been very iU off had not my 
grandfather given me plenty of beautiful 
clothes. When I hesitated, Cousin Conrad 
said, “ Take them ; it is your right, and it 


makes him happy.” So I took them, and 
enjoyed them too. It is pleasant to feel that 
people notice one’s dress — people whose 
opinion one values. I laughed to think my 
mother would not call me “ untidy” now. 

Also, I was glad to believe, to be quite 
sure, that my grandfather was not ashamed 
of me. When Mrs. Rix told him how many 
partners I had, he used to smile complacent- 
ly. “ Of course ! She is a Miss Picardy — a 
true Miss Picardy. Isn’t she, Conrad ?” At 
which Cousin Conrad would smile too. 

He always went out with us now, though 
he did not dance ; but he kept near us, and 
made every thing easy and pleasant, almost 
as pleasant as being at home. 

But these home evenings were the best, 
after all. I hoped they would come back 
again, when my mother was here. Often I 
pictured to myself how we would enjoy 
them. My grandfather asleep in his chair; 
my mother and Cousin Conrad sitting on the 
large sofa, one at either end ; and I myself 
on my favorite little chair, opposite them. 
How often he laughed at me — such a big, 
tall girl — for liking such a little chair! 
They would talk together, and I would sit 
silent, watching their two faces. Oh, how 
happy I should be ! 

I had fallen into so deep a reverie that 
when there came a knock to my door I quite 
started. 

It was only Mrs. Rix, coming to say that 
my grandfather wanted me. But she did it 
in such a mysterious way — and besides, it 
was odd he should want me at that early 
hour, and in his study, where few ever went 
except Cousin Conrad. 

“ What does he want me for ? There is 
nothing the matter ?” 

“ Oh no, my dear ; quite the contrary, I 
do assure you. But, as I said to the General, 

‘ She is so innocent, I am sure she has not 
the slightest idea’ — oh dear, what am I say- 
ing ? — I only promised to tell you that your 
grandfather wanted you.” 

“ I will come directly.” 

She said true; I had not the slightest 
idea. I no more guessed what was coming 
upon me than if I had been a baby of five 
years old. I staid calmly to fold up my 
dress and put my ribbons by, Mrs. Rix look- 
ing on with that air of deferential raysteri- 
ousness which had rather vexed me in her 
of late. 

“ That is right, my dear. Be very partic- 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


67 


ular iu your toilet ; it is the proper thing, 
under — your circumstances. But here I am, 
letting the cat out of the bag again, which 
the Major said I was on no account to do.” 

Is Cousin Conrad with my grandfather V’ 
said I, with a sudden doubt that this might 
concern him, his going back to India, or 
something. 

‘‘ Oh no. He and Sir Thomas went away 
together — Sir Thomas Appleton, you know 
— who has been sitting with the General 
these two hours.” 

“ Has he ?” and I was just going to add. 

How very tired my grandfather must be !” 
when I remembered the young man was a 
favorite with Mrs. Rix ; at least, she always 
contrived to have him near us, and to get 
me to dance with him. The latter I liked 
well enough — he was a beautiful dancer; 
the former I found rather a bore. But then 
he was an excellent person. Cousin Conrad 
said, and they two were very good friends ; 
which had inclined me to be kind, kinder 
than I might otherwise have been, to Sir 
Thomas Appleton. 

Forgetting all about him, I ran down 
stairs, gayly too. For second thoughts told 
me there was nothing to be afraid of. If 
any thing were going to happen — if Cousin 
Conrad had been returning to India, he 
would have told me ; certainly as soon as he 
told Mrs. Rix. He had got into a habit of 
talking to me, and telling me things, very 
much as a kind elder brother would tell a 
young sister, whom he wished to make hap- 
py with his trust as well as his tenderness. 
And it did make me happy, more and more 
so every day. My soul seemed to grow, like 
a flower in sunshine, and to stretch itself 
out so as to be able to understand what 
seemed to me, the more I knew of it, the 
most perfect character of a man that I had 
ever heard or read of. And yet he liked me 
— poor ignorant me ! and I was certain, if 
he were going out to India, or any where 
else, he would have told me as soon as he 
told her. So I threw aside all uneasiness, 
and knocked at my grandfather’s door with 
a heart as light as a child’s. 

For the last time ! It never was a child’s 
heart any more. 

“ Come in, my dear ! Pardon my dressing- 
gown. If I did not receive you thus early, I 
might not have caught you at all. You have, 
I hear, such endless engagements, and are 
growing the cynosure of every eye in Bath.” 


“ I, Sir ?” said I, puzzled over the word 
“ cynosure,” being, alas ! not classically edu- 
cated, like my grandfather and Cousin Con- 
rad. Still it apparently meant something 
nice, and my grandfather smiled as if at some 
pleasant idea ; so I smiled too. 

“ Yes, they tell me you are universally ad- 
mired,” patting my hand affectionately with 
his soft old fingers. “Quite natural too. 
One of our friends”— he looked at me keenly 
— “ one of our most ardent friends, has been 
praising you to me for these two hours.” 

“ Sir Thomas Appleton, was it ? But he 
is Mrs. Rix’s friend rather than mine. She 
is exceedingly fond of him.” 

I said this, I know I did, with the most 
perfect simplicity and gravity. My grand- 
father again looked at me, with a sort of per- 
plexed inquiry, then smiled with his grand 
air. 

“ Quite right. The proper thing entirely, 
in so very young a lady. My dear Elma, 
your conduct is all I could desire. How old 
are you ?” 

“ Seventeen and a half.” 

“My mother, your grandmother — no, she 
would be your great-grandmother — was, I 
remember, married at seventeen.” 

“ Was she ? That was rather young — too 
young, my mother would think. She did not 
marry till she was thirty.” 

I said that rather confusedly. I always 
did feel a little confused when people began 
to talk of these sort of things. 

My grandfather drew himself up with dig- 
nity. 

“ Mrs. Picardy’s opinion and practice are, 
of course, of the highest importance. Still, 
you must allow me to differ from her. In 
our family early marriages have always been 
the rule, and very properly. A young wife is 
much more likely to bend to her husband’s 
ways, and this — especially in cases where the 
up-bringing has been, hem ! a little different 
— is very desirable. In short, when in such 
a case a suitable match offers, I think, be the 
young lady ever so young, her friends have 
no right to refuse it.” 

What young lady? Did he mean me? 
Was any body wanting to marry me? I 
began to tremble violently — why, I hardly 
knew. 

“ Sit down, my dear. Do not be agitated, 
though a little agitation is of course natural, 
under the circumstances. But did I not say 
that I am quite satisfied with you ? and — let 


68 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


me assure you — with the gentleman like- 
wise.” 

It was that, then. Somebody wafs want- 
ing to marry me. 

Now, I confess I had of late thought a 
great deal about love, but of marriage al- 
most nothing. Of course marriage follows 
love, as daylight dawn ; but this wonderful, 
glorious dawn, coloring all the sleeping world 
— this was the principal thing. When one 
sits on a hill-top, watching the sun rise, one 
does not much trouble one’s self about what 
will happen at noonday. To love with all 
one’s soul and strength, to spend and be spent 
for the beloved object ; perhaps, if one de- 
served it, to be loved back again, in an ecsta- 
sy of bliss — these were thoughts and dreams 
not unfamiliar and exquisitely sweet. But 
the common idea of marriage, as I heard it 
discussed by girls about me : the gentleman 
paying attention, proposing, then a grand 
wedding, with dresses and bride-maids and 
breakfast, ending by an elegant house and 
every thing in good style — this I regarded, 
if not with indifference, with a sort of sub- 
lime contempt. That I should ever marry in 
that way! I felt myself grow hot all over 
at the idea. 

“Yes, my dear, I assure you Sir Thomas 
Appleton — ” 

Now the truth broke upon me ! His per- 
sistent following of us, Mrs. Rix’s encourage- 
ment of him, her incessant praising of him to 
me ; and I had been civil and kind to him, 
bore as he was, for her sake and Cousin Con- 
rad’s ! Oh me, poor me ! 

“ Sir Thomas Appleton, Elma, has asked 
my permission to pay his addresses to you. 
He is a young man of independent fortune, 
good family, and unblemished character. He 
may not be — well, I have known cleverer 
men, but he is quite the gentleman. You 
will soon reciprocate his affection, I am sure. 
Come, my dear, allow me to congratulate 
you.” And he dropped on my forehead a 
light kiss, the first he had ever given me. 
“Pray be calm. I had wished Mrs. Rix to 
communicate this fact, but Conrad thought 
I had better tell you myself,” 

The “fact,” startling as it was, affected 
me less than this other fact — that Cousin 
Conrad knew it. 

My heart stood still a moment ; then be- 
gan to beat so violently that I could neither 
hear nor see. Instinctively I shrank back 
out of my grandfather’s sight, but he did 


not look at me. With his usual delicacy he 
began turning over papers till I should re- 
cover myself. 

For I must recover myself, I knew that, 
though from what I hardly did know, except 
that it was not the feeling he attributed to 
me. Still, I must control it. Cousin Con- 
rad knew all, and would be told all. 

When my grandfather turned round I 
think he saw the quietest possible face, for 
he patted my hand approvingly. 

“ That is right. Look happy ; you ought 
to be happy. Let me again say I am quite 
satisfied. Sir Thomas has behaved through- 
out exceedingly like a gentleman, especially 
in applying to me first, which he did, he 
says, by Conrad’s advice, you being so very 
young. But not too young, I trust, to ap- 
preciate the compliment paid you, and the 
great advantage of such a connection. I, 
for my part, could not have desired for my 
granddaughter a better marriage ; and, let 
me say it, in choosing you Sir Thomas wull 
do equal honor to my family and his own.” 

It never seemed to enter my grandfather’s 
head that^ I should not marry Sir Thomas 
Appleton ! 

What was I to do, a poor lonely girl? 
What was I to say when my answer was 
demanded ? “ No,” it would be, of course ; 

but if I were hard pressed as to why I said 
no — 

Easy enough to tell some point-blank lie 
— any lie that came to hand ,* but the truth, 
which I had always been accustomed to tell 
without hesitation or consideration, that I 
could not tell. It burst upon me, while I sat 
there, blinding and beautiful as sunrise. 

Why could I not marry Sir Thomas Ap- 
pleton or any other man ? Because, if so, I 
should have to give up thinking, as I had 
lately come to think, in all I did, or felt, or 
planned, of a friend I had, who was more to 
me than any lover in the whole world — a 
man, the best man I ever knew, who, if 
twenty lovers were to come and ask me, I 
should still feel in my heart was superior to 
them all. 

But — could I tell this to my grandfather, 
or any human being ? And if not, why not ? 
What was it, this curious absorption which 
had taken such entire possession of me? 
Was it friendship? or — that other feeling 
which my mother and I had sometimes 
spoken about as a thing to come one day ? 
Had it come ? And if so, what then ? 


l^STiNOTJVEl,y 1 SUBANK HAOB OUT OF MY GBANPFATBEB’S vSlGUT 


/ 



/ 




.1 ' 


\ '' I 'H' 'a 
L .' ■ B» ' ' . ' 

'*^:‘0>V >; 


y : 

r 


iWV 


• * • *. ' ' • - 


/ 1 


■■• ' ♦ 


i • 




II 


- J h 






S'J:* 

i!v: 


. *-.‘f 

f ' • 


. r 

\ 


*■ m. 


*? 

. •', ' 


i 


f.' I 
> 'X' 9 


. U 


i -A t : '* 

’ . 1 - I 


'• j t't 


'■-•.i. # .V * 

;,■ .b\.- ' 




^ : I ' 


<*•' * 




iv 


B..f»', . *• ' '* ."i' V*'* I ' ■ ■ ' i . * "' ^ '■ 

. •' *' ; * <t<*A ' '• i WS . . ’ , , • ' '* J 

■ ' _.!{ .V: ' .•• ‘X’- '' . • • : ._. , 


- iv*« t ' ■'^^’ ■ '^ 't ''i'-- ' '** ■■ -•■* ■ 

‘^/ ', ' K*" ' *• • ' '-W^' '-..'.i* V .■ ’. '. ,\ '. jV* , ?' I. . ^ 

« . •« - lT , *■ - *- I 

” ■' -*. /'•■'' '-■':}^f'.' ■ \ 'Vr^' ^ 


.-t 

f ••s > 


*v 


. r 


' 1 


n?. i'» 


•i • ,• 


f:-'- 


4.- , *•, ,'i *• » * ' r T -k*' 1 • . ..•, 

''^i,-'*r^' ^ • - * ■' li ' i * • i ? . • “ 4 *■ • 

B^.'-.- . V*u<4i ' ‘'V- .'«*:;:;V'*;,' .', ' i-t 


f • 

• ' !V * 






IV, , '• 


r ^ ■< .'.t. . • . : » 

. 'i*' I'i* ^ "•• ■'■ ; ,:..■ - tv. ; . -t ,. ., - .- 

t - V., 

"■». j' ,v If. : •,. '''.r -t •■ ' .. t.'' -I- 

i'- . ■•'. , •:. ' -' .- 7 / . . '. ■ ‘ 


fr'v 




t-' 



' *' J ■ V'^ » : ♦jOG*. 

f*9 

tiW » 

V ' 



* ♦ 



•1 

. ^ 


' 

\-*r^ ^ ' 

■■ 'f- ^ 



• f ^ ■ ■ 4 

/ i A* 1 . • '^ / ♦-> ■ ‘ 

Vv 

» 


^ 'Ji- 


.- *%s 


^‘Vt’ r 


j 

* •' 




► j ■ 


L7 .•?..l^.^'.. 


• •x^ 


f , 


^■ * 


' J 




1$ ■*/* 





• VI 




i.' ■ f- ''^- ■ 






V . 


■ ^ '-r:t>,.- /-r’ 

-r,^ '• • r .. ,'■ ■" 



,fi 






\ 

4 > I* 


r 


i' 


. r’< 


, ' r. . 


I \¥ 


^ kJ 






I^^.V 

/i , «■, 





• :r 
•> 


/ . . i \ 


^ I >1 f 


¥ •• 




'. t * . ' 

^; < V 



h:.\ ‘ 


^v 


.* • * » ' ^ 


iN, ' 


AV, 


» ■* 


. i t 


*’ >‘.' 


'i. 


< > 


. ^ 


I • 






.n:;; ■ ■. •’" /■.;7 

... ,'•■ I, ' : r. 

• •* • i < ■ 


‘Vi:w< 


. ••-V' •‘•: . 

* '5 i • • . 

. • -]fr * » ' »y ' ‘ ^ 

4 'l ‘ • * i^m' ' ■ «**.• • ‘ • <K. ’« 

'. -■ ^ 

* • ■- ’« V' ^ I »; .•# f 'y' Vr’*-'-'.'’ ■' t ’ . ' ’ * 

' • ^*‘■^.^^,^’l.•. . '*.•-■ •,' '•■ -*•— ‘k'- - ;■' ‘ 

V,!-.- -■■«■.■ , • -‘.' . ' 


V ' 

*■ (•'».', • \ ' ■'• ‘ ' l> v f 

•f ■^;y-: 


<< ' 

1 


% 

^-/i ■ 

S;vl-V 

■1 *'% 


« 

k<' 


. )tL . » 


■ K*S*aV-/*W, %V'wM. '..V w'. *n 


V '. *4 - 4 *'. .. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


71 


A kind of terror came over me. I grew 
cold as a stone. For my life I could not 
have spoken a word. 

There seemed no necessity to speak. Ap- 
parently my grandfather took every thing 
for granted. He went on informing me, in 
a gentle, courteous, business-like way, that 
Sir Thomas and his sister, “ a charming per- 
son, and delighted to welcome you into the 
family, my dear,” would dine here to-mor- 
row. “ Not to-day ; Conrad suggested that 
you would probably like to be alone with 
your mother to-day.” 

That word changed me from stone into 
flesh again — flesh that could feel, and feel 
with an infinite capacity of pain ! I cried 
out with a great cry, Oh, let me go home 
to my mother !” 

I have already sent for her. She ought 
to be here in an hour,” said my grandfather, 
rather stiftly, and again turned to his papers, 
that I might compose myself. And I tried, 
oh, how desperately I tried, to choke down 
my sobs. 

If I could only run away, hide myself any 
where, anyhow, out of every body’s sight, 
answering no questions and giving no ex- 
idanations ! That was my first thought. 
My second was less frantic, less cowardly. 
Whatever happened, I must not go away 
and leave my grandfather believing in a lie. 

Twice, thrice, I opened my lips to speak 
just one word — a brief, helpless, almost im- 
ifioring “ No,” to be given by him at once to 
the young man who was so mistaken as to 
care for me — but it would not come. There 
I sat like a fool — no, like a poor creature 
suddenly stunned, who knew not what she 
said or did, did not recognize herself at all, 
except for a dim consciousness that her only 
safety lay in total silence. 

Suddenly there came a knock at the hall 
door close by. 

“That’s Conrad,” said my grandfather, 
evidently relieved. Young ladies and their 
love affairs were too much for him after the 
first ten minutes. “ Conrad said he would 
be back directly. Ah, must you go, my 
dear ?” For I had started up like a hunted 
hare. At all costs I must escape now, at 
once, too, before Cousin Conrad saw me. 
“ Go, then ; pray go. God bless you, my 
dear !” 

I just endured that benediction — a polite- 
ness rather than a prayer — and felt my 
grandfather touch my hand. Then I fled 


— fled like any poor dumb beast with the 
hounds after it, and locked myself up in 
my own room. 

I am an old woman now. I very seldom 
cry for any thing ; there is nothing now 
worth crying for. Still, I have caught my- 
self dropping a harmless tear or two on this 
paper at the thought of that poor girl, Elma 
Picardy, in her first moments of anguish, 
terror, and despair. 

It was at first actual despair. Not that 
of hopeless love ; because if it was love, of 
course it was hopeless. The idea of being 
loved and married in the ordinary way by 
the only person whom it would be possible 
for me to love and marry never entered into 
my contemplations. The despair was, be- 
cause my mother would be here in an hour, 
either told or expecting to be told every 
thing. And if I did not tell her, she, who 
knew me so well, would be sure to find it 
out. What should I do ? For the first time 
in my life I dreaded to look in the face of 
my own mother. 

She must be close at hand now. I took 
out my watch ; ah, that watch ! Cousin 
Conrad had given it me only a week ago, 
saying he did not want it, it was a lady’s 
watch — his mother’s, I think — and it would 
be useful to me. I might keep it till he 
asked for it. I did. It goes tick-tick-tick, 
singing its innocent daily song, just over my 
heart, to this day. A rather old watch now ; 
but it will last my time. Laying my fore- 
head on its calm white face — not my lips, 
though I longed to kiss it, but was afraid — 
I sobbed my heart out for a little while. 

Then I rose up, washed my face and 
smoothed my hair, trying to make myself 
look, externally at least, like the same girl 
my mother sent away from her only about 
six weeks since. Oh, what a gulf lay be- 
tween that time and this ! Oh, why did she 
ever send me away ? Why did I ever come 
here ? And yet — and yet — 

No, I said to myself then, and I say now, 
that if all were to happen over again, I 
would not have had it different. 

So I sat with my hands folded, looking up 
the same suuny hill-side that I had looked at 
this morning, but the light seemed to have 
slipped away from it, and was fading, fading 
fast. Alas ! the view had not changed, it 
was only I. 

A full hour — more than an hour — I must 
have sat there, trying to shut out all thought. 


72 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


and concentrate myself into the one effort 
of listening for carriage wheels, which I 
thought I should hear, even at the back of 
the house. Still they did not come. I had 
just begun to wonder why, when I heard 
myself called from the foot of the stairs. 

“ Is Miss Picardy there ? I want Miss 
Picardy.” 

The familiar voice, kind and clear! It 
went through me like a sword. Then I 
sprang up and hugged my pain. It was 
only pain ; there was nothing wrong in it ,* 
there could not be. Was it a sin, meeting 
with what was perfectly noble, good, and 
true ; to see it, appreciate it, love it ? Yes, 
I loved him. I was sure of that now. But 
it was as innocently, as ignorantly, as com- 
pletely without reference to his loving me, 
as if he had been an angel from heaven. 

Now, when I know what men are, even 
the best of them — not so very angelic after 
all — I smile to think how any girl could 
ever thus think of any man ; yet when I re- 
member my angel — not perhaps all I im- 
agined him, but very perfect still — I do not 
despise myself. He came to me truly as an 
angel, a messenger, God’s messenger of all 
things pure and high. As such I loved him 
— and love him still. 

“Miss Picardy. Can any one tell me 
where to find Miss Picardy V’ 

For the second time I heard him call, and 
this time it felt like music through the 
house. I opened my door, and answered 
over the balustrade — 

“I am here. Cousin Conrad. Has my 
mother come ?” 

“ No.” 

My first feeling, let me tell the truth, was 
a horrible sense of relief. Ah, me ! that I 
ever should have been glad not to see my 
mother! Then I grew frightened. What 
could have kept her from coming ? No 
small reason, surely, if she knew how much 
I needed her, and why she was sent for. 
But perhaps no one had told her. 

Cousin Conrad seemed to guess at my per- 
plexity and alarm. When I ran down stairs 


to him, the kind face met me, and the ex- 
tended hands, just as usual. 

“I thought I would give you the news 
myself, lest you might be uneasy. But there 
is no cause, I think. Your grandfather only 
sent a verbal message, and has received the 
same back, that Mrs. Picardy is ^ not able’ 
to come to-day, but will write to-morrow. 
However, if you like, I will ride over at 
once.” 

“ Oh no.” 

“ To-morrow, then — but I forget. I have 
to go to London to-morrow for a week. 
Would you really wish to hear ? I can ride 
over to-night in the moonlight.” 

“ You are very kind. No.” 

My tongue “ clave to the roof of my 
mouth,” my poor, idle, innocent, chattering 
tongue. My eyes never stirred from the 
ground. Mercifully, I did not blush. I felt 
all cold and white. And there I stood, like 
a fool. No, I was not a fool. A fool would 
never have felt my pain j but would have 
been quite happy, and gone and married Sir 
Thomas Appleton. 

Did he think I was going to do that ? I 
was sure he was looking at me with keen 
observation, but he made no remark until 
he said at last, with a very gentle voice, 

“You need not be unhappy, cousin. I 
think you are sure to see your mother to- 
morrow.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Good-by, then, till dinner-time, the last 
time I shall see you for some days.” 

“ Good-by.” 

Possibly he thought I did not care about 
his going, or my mother’s coming, or any 
thing else — except, perhaps. Sir Thomas 
Appleton ! 

Without another word he turned away, 
and went slowly down stairs. It was a slow 
step, always firm and steady, but without 
the elasticity of youth. I listened to it, 
tread after tread, and to the sound of the 
hall door shutting after it. Then I went 
back into my room again, and oh, how I 
cried ! 




CHAPTER X. 


We bad a strangely quiet dinner that 
evening. There were only we four — my 
grandfather, Cousin Conrad, Mrs. Rix, and 
I : and, as usual when we were alone, my 
grandfather, with courteous formality, took 
Mrs. Rix in to dinner, and Cousin Conrad 
took me. I remember, as we crossed the 
hall, he glanced down on my left hand, 
which lay on his arm ; but he did not pat it, 
as he sometimes did, and he treated me, I 
thought, less like a child than he had ever 
done before. 

For me — what shall I say? what can I 
tell of myself? It is all so long ago, and 
even at the time I saw every thing through 
such a mist — half fright, half pain — with a 
strange gleam of proud happiness shining 
through the whole. 

I believed then, I believe still, that to be 
loved is a less thing than to love — to see 
that which is loveworthy, and love it. This 
kind of attachment, being irrespective of 
self, fears no change, and finds none. If it 
suffers, its very sufferings come to it in a 
higher and more bearable shape than to 
smaller and more selfish affections. As Mi- 
randa says of Ferdinand, 

“ To be your fellow 
You may deny me, but I’ll be your servant, 
Whether you will or no.” 

Ay,’ and not an unhappy service, though 
silent, as with a human woman — not a 
Miranda — it needs must be. I was happy, 
happier than I could tell, when I had man- 
aged that his seat at dinner should be near- 
est the fire — he loved fires, summer and 
winter ; and that in the drawing-room the 
chair he found easiest for his hurt shoulder 
to lean a^raiust should be in the corner he 

O 


liked best, where the lamp-light did not 
strike against his eyes. The idea of his 
wooing or marrying me, or marrying any 
body, after what he had told me, would have 
seemed a kind of sacrilege. But it did him 
no harm to be loved in this innocent way, 
and it did me good — oh, such infinite good ! 
That quiet dinner hour beside him, listen- 
ing to his talk with my grandfather, which 
he kept uj), I poticed, with generous perti- 
nacity, so that nobody might trouble me ; 
the comfort of being simply in the room 
with him, able to watch his face and hear 
the tones of his voice — how little can I tell 
of all this, how much can I remember ! And 
I say again, even for a woman, to love is a 
better thing than to be loved. 

Therefore girls need not blush or fear, 
even if, by some hard fortune, they find 
themselves in as sad a position as I. 

When Mrs. Rix fell asleep, as she always 
did when we were alone together after din- 
ner, I sat down on the hearth-rug, with her 
little pet spaniel curled up in my lap, and 
thought, and thought, till I was nearly be- 
wildered. 

Neither she nor any one had named Sir 
Thomas Appleton. Nobody had taken the 
slightest notice of what had happened since 
morning, or what was going to happen to- 
morrow, except that in Mrs. Rix’s manner to 
me there was a slight shade of added defer- 
ence, and, in my grandfather’s, of tenderness, 
as if something had made me of more conse- 
quence since yesterday. For Cousin Conrad, 
he was just the same. Of course, to him, 
nothing that had occurred made any differ- 
ence. 

Sometimes the whole thing seemed like a 
dream, and then I weke up to the conscious- 


74 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


ness of liow true it all was, and of the neces- 
sity for. saying and doing something that 
might end it. For if not, how did I know 
that I might not he dragged unwittingly 
into some engagement, some understood 
agreement that might hind me for life, 
when I only wanted to he free — free to 
think, without sin, of one friend — the only 
man in the world in whom I felt the small- 
est interest — free to care for him, to help 
him if he ever needed it — to honor and love 
him always ! 

This was all. If I could only get rid of 
that foolish Sir Thomas, perhaps nohody 
else would ever want to marry me, and then 
I could go hack into the old ways, externally 
at least, and nohody would ever guess my 
secret, not even my mother. For I had late- 
ly felt that there was something in me which 
even she did not understand, a reticence and 
strength of will which belonged not to the 
Dedmans, hut the Picardys. Often, when I 
looked into his eyes, I was conscious of be- 
ing, in character, not so very unlike my 
grandfather. 

Therefore nohody could force me or per- 
suade me into any marriage — I was sure of 
that ; and sitting in front of the fire — we had 
fires still, for Cousin Conrad’s sake — idly 
twisting little Flossy’s ears, I tried to nerve 
myself for every thing. 

Alas ! not against every thing ; for when 
the two gentlemen came in, and behind them 
a third, it was more than I could hear. To 
my despair, I began blushing and trembling 
so much that people might fancy I actually 
loved him. 

But, oh ! how I hated him — his handsome 
face, his nervous, hesitating manner. 

‘‘I have to apologize. The General 
brought me in, just for five minutes, to say 
how sorry I was not to he able to pay my 
respects to Mrs. Picardy. To-morrow, per- 
haps, to-morrow — ” 

“We shall all he most happy to see you 
to-morrow,” said my grandfather, with grave 
dignity, and, turning to Mrs. Rix, left Sir 
Thomas to seat himself on a chair by my 
side. 

I suppose I ought to have been grateful. 
Every girl ought to feel at least gratefully 
to the man that loves her. But I did not ,* 
I disliked, I almost loathed him. 

Pardon, excellent, kindly, and very fat 
baronet, whom I meet every year, when you 
come up to London with a still handsome 


Lady Appleton and three charming Misses 
Appleton, who are all most polite to me — 
pardon ! Every thing is better as it is ; both 
for you and for me. 

It was a wretched wooing. Sir Thomas 
talked nervously to my grandfather, to Cous- 
in Conrad, to every body but me, who sat 
like a stone, longing to run away, yet afraid 
to do it. For now and then the General cast 
on me a look of slight annoyance — if so 
courteous a gentleman could ever look an- 
noyed ; and Mrs. Rix came and whispered to 
me not to be “ frightened.” Frightened, in- 
deed! At what ? At a creature who was 
more" than indifferent — absolutely detesta- 
ble — to me, from the topmost curl of his 
black hair to the sole of his shining boots. 
He must have seen this ; I wanted him to 
see it. Yet still he staid on, and on, as if 
he would never go. 

When at last he did, and I faced the three 
with w'hom I had lived so happily all these 
weeks — the three who knew every thing, 
and knew that I knew they knew it — it was 
a dreadful moment. 

“I think we had better retire,” said my 
grandfather, rather sternly. “Conrad, I 
want you for a few minutes. And, Mrs. Rix, 
you, who are accustomed to the ways of so- 
ciety, will perhaps take the trouble to ex- 
plain to my granddaughter that — that — ” 

“ I understand. General. Rely upon me,” 
said Mrs. Rix, mysteriously. 

And then, with the briefest good-night to 
me, my grandfather left the room. 

Mrs. Rix, having her tongue now unseal- 
ed, made the most of her opportunity. How 
she did talk! What about I very dimly re- 
member, except that it was on the great ad- 
vantage of being married young, and to a 
person of wealth and standing. Then she 
held out to me all the blessings that would 
come to me on my marriage — country-house,' 
town-house, carriages, horses, dresses, dia- 
monds — the Appleton diamonds were known 
all over the county. In short, she painted 
my future couleur de rose, only it seemed mere . 
landscape -painting, figures omitted, espe-; 
cially one figure which I had heretofore con- 
sidered most important of all— the husband. - 

What did I answer? Nothing — I had 
nothing to say. To speak to the poor wom- 
an would have been like two people talking ’ 
in different languages. Besides, I despised 
too much all her arguments, herself also — 
ay, in my arrogant youth I actually despised 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


75 



her — poor, good-natured Mrs. Rix, who only 
desired my happiness. If her notion of hap- 
piness was not mine, why blame her ? As I 
afterward learned, she had had a hard enough 
life of her own to make her feel now that to 
secure meat, drink, and clothing of the best 
description for the whole of one’s days was, 
after all, not a bad thing. 

But I ? Oh ! I could have lived on bread 
and water, I could have served on my knees, 
I could have given up every luxury, have 
suffered every sorrow — provided it were my- 
self alone that suffered — if only I might 
never have been parted from some one — not 
Sir Thomas Appleton. 

Mrs. Rix talked till she was tired, and 


then, quite satisfied, I suppose, that silence 
meant acquiescence, and no doubt a little 
proud of her own powers of rhetoric, she 
bade me a kind good-night and went up 
stairs. 

I crouched once more on the hearth-rug, 
without even the little dog, feeling the lone- 
liest creature alive. Not crying — I was past 
that — but trying to harden myself into be- 
ginning to endure. Vincit qui j)atHur, my 
mother’s favorite motto, to me had as yet 
borne no meaning. I had had such a happy 
life, with almost nothing to endure. Now I 
must begin — I must take up my burden and 
bear it, whatever it might be. And I must 
bear it alone. No more — ah! never any 


76 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


more — could I run to my mother and lay my 
grief in her arms, and feel that her kiss took 
away almost every sting of pain. At least, 
so I thought then. 

I tried to shut my eyes on the far future, 
and think only of to-morrow. Then I must 
iuevitahly speak to my grandfather, and ask 
him to give Sir Thomas a distinct No. If 
further information were required, I must 
say simply that I did not love him, and 
therefore could not marry him, and keep to 
that. Nobody could force out of me any 
thing more ; and all reasonings and persua- 
sions I must meet with that stony silence, 
easy enough toward ordinary persons whom 
I cared as little for as for Mrs. Rix. But 
with my mother? — I felt a frantic desire 
now that every thing should be over and 
done before my mother came. Then she and 
I would return to the village together, and 
go back to our old life — with a difierence — 
oh, what a difference ! 

It was not wholly pain. I deny that : mis- 
erable and perplexed as I was, I felt at in- 
tervals content, glad — nay, proud. I had 
found out the great secret of life ; I was a 
child no more, but a woman, with a woman’s 
heart. When I thought of it, I hid my face, 
a burniug face, though I was quite alone ; 
yet I had no sense of shame. To be ashamed, 
indeed, because I had seen the best, the 
highest, and loved it! Mrs. Rix had said, 
a projyos of my “ shyness,” that of course no 
girl ought to care for any man until he asked 
her. But I thought the angels, looking down 
into my poor heart, might look with other 
eyes than did Mrs. Rix. 

So I was not ashamed. Not even when 
the door suddenly opened, and Cousin Con- 
rad himself came in. I sprung up, and made 
believe I had been warming myself at the 
fire — that was all. 

I beg your pardon, Elma, but your grand- 
father sent me here to see if you had gone to 
bed.” 

‘‘ I was just going. Does he want me ?” 

‘‘ No.” 

Conrad was so quiet that I perforce grew 
quiet too, even when he came and sat down 
by me on the sofa. 

“ Have you a few minutes to spare ? Be- 
cause the General asked me to speak to you 
about a matter which you must surely guess. 
Shall I say my few words now, or put them 
off till morning ?” 

“ Say them now.” 


For I felt that whatever was to happen 
had best happen at once, and then be over 
and done. 

Our conversation did not last very long, 
but I remember it, almost word for word, 
even to this day. Throughout he was his 
own natural self — calm, gentle, kind. I 
could see h^ had never the slightest idea he 
was wounding me, stabbing me deep down 
to the heart with such a tender hand. 

I suppose you know,” he said, “ what I 
am desired to speak to you about ?” 

‘‘ I think I do.” 

“ And I hope you know also that I should 
not take the liberty — brotherly liberty 
though it be, for I feel to you like an elder 
brother — if the General had not expressly 
desired it, and if I were not afraid of any 
excitement bringing on a return of his ill- 
ness. You would be very sorry for that.” 

“ Yes.” Yes and No were all the words I 
found myself capable of answering. 

‘^Your grandfather is, as you perceive, 
very proud of you, fond of you too. In his 
sort of way he has set his heart upon your 
making what he calls a good marriage. Now, 
Sir Thomas Appleton — ” 

I turned and looked at him full in the 
face. I wished to find out how far he spoke 
from his heart, and how far in accordance 
with his duty and my grandfather’s desire. 

“ Sir Thomas Appleton is not a brilliantly 
clever man, nor, in all things, exactly the 
man I should have expected would j)lease 
you ; but he would please almost any girl, 
and he is thoroughly good, upright, and 
gentlemanly. In worldly advantages this 
is, as your grandfather and Mrs. Rix say” — 
he slightly smiled — “ a very ‘ good’ marriage 
indeed. Nor, I think, would your mother 
disapprove of it, nor need you do so for her 
sake. You will be married some time, I sup- 
pose : she knows that. This marriage would 
secure to her a home for life in the house of 
a son-in-law who, I doubt not, would be as 
good a son to her as he always was to his 
own mother. Elma, are you listening ?” 

Of course I was ! I heard every word — 
took in with a cruel certainty that if I said 
“ Yes,” it would make every body happy, 
most likely Cousin Conrad too. 

“ You wish me, then, you all wish me, to 
marry Sir Thomas Appleton, whether I care 
for him or not ?” 

He noticed the excessive bitterness of my 
tone. “No, you mistake. In fact, I must 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


77 


be in some mistake too. I thought, from 
what they said, that there was not the slight- 
est doubt you cared for him. At least that 
his love was not unacceptable to you.” 

“ Love !” I said, fiercely. “ He has danced 
with me half a dozen times at a ball, and 
talked with me at two or three evening 
parties. How can he love me ? What does 
he know of mef As much as I of him — 
which is nothing, absolutely nothing. How 
dare he say he loves me V’ 

I stood with my heart throbbing and my 
eyes burning. I wished to do something — 
to hurt something or somebody, I was so 
hurt and sore myself. And then I fell a-cry- 
ing. Not violently, but the great tears would 
roll down. I was terribly ashamed of my- 
self. When I looked up again, I am sure 
there must have been something in my eyes 
— he once told me I had deer’s eyes — not 
unlike a deer when the hunter stands over 
her with his knife at her throat. 

Cousin Conrad, why do you persuade me 
to marry your friend when I don’t love him, 
when I don’t want to marry him or any 
body, but only to go home to my mother? 
Oh, why can’t you leave us at peace togeth- 
er ? We were so happy, my mother and I !” 

I broke into one single sob. At the mo- 
ment my only thought was to hide myself 
from him and all the world in my mother’s 
arms. 

Cousin Conrad looked much troubled. 

There has been some great blunder,” he 
said, and the General must have been ut- 
terly misled. I am glad he sent me to speak 
to you instead of speaking himself; for when 
he finds out the truth, he will be, I fear, ex- 
ceedingly disappointed. And for poor Sir 
Thomas, was it such a very unnatural and 
wicked thing to love you ?” And he went 
on speaking with great kindliness, touching 
kindliness, of the many good qualities of 
the man who wanted to marry me — me, sim- 
ple Elma Picardy, without fortune or accom- 
plishments, or any thing to recommend me, 
except, perhaps, my poor pretty face. A 
generous love, at any rate, and I could per- 
ceive he thought it so. 

It was very hard to bear. Even now, at 
this distance of time, I repeat that it was 
very hard to bear. For a moment, in an 
impulse of sharp pain, I felt inclined to do 
as many a girl has done under like circum- 
stances — to throw myself, just as I was, into 
the refuge of a good man’s love, where I 


should suffer no more, be blamed no more ; 
where all my secret would be covered o.ver, 
and nobody would ever know. And then I 
looked at the noble good face that from my 
first glance at it had seemed distinct from 
every face I ever beheld except my mother’s. 

No, I could not do it. Not while he stood 
there, alone in the world, with no tie that 
made it wrong for me to think of him as I 
did. I must think of him. I must love him. 
Though it killed me, I must love him, and 
never dream of marrying any body else. 

So I said, quite quietly, that I should be 
very much obliged to him if he would take 
the trouble of telling my grandfather the 
real state of the case, as I feared this morn- 
ing I did not make him understand. In 
truth, I was so terribly frightened. 

“ Poor child ! But you are not afraid of 
me ? You know I would never urge you to 
do any thing that made you unhappy. My 
dear Elma, of course you shall go back to 
your mother. Believe me, very few of us 
men are worth giving up a mother for.” 

He patted my hand. Oh, why could I not 
snatch it away ? What a horrible hyi^ocrite 
I did feel! 

“ And now let us see what can be done, 
for it is rather difficult. I have to go away 
early to-morrow morning, and shall proba- 
bly be absent the whole week. In the mean 
time it will never do for you and your grand- 
father to talk this over together ; he will get 
irritated with you.” 

“ Oh, let me go home to my mother.” 

“She expressly said you were on no ac- 
count to go, but to wait till she came or sent 
for you.” 

This was odd, but I did not take it much 
into account then. I was too perplexed and 
miserable. 

“ The only way that I can see is for me 
to tell your grandfather that some difficul- 
ties have arisen, and that I have gone to 
Sir Thomas to beg him not to urge his suit 
until Mrs. Picardy arrives. The General 
will accept that explanation, and think no 
more about it till the week is ended. You 
know, Elma, your grandfather has one very 
strong peculiarity — he does not like being 
‘ bothered.’ ” 

And Cousin Conrad smiled, just to win 
back my faint smile, I thought, and make 
me feel that life was not the dreadful trag- 
edy which, no doubt, my looks implied that 
I found it. 


78 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


‘^Tbis is your first pain, my cliikl, but it 
will soon pass over. I wish I could say the 
same for poor Appleton.” 

I hung my head. Have I been to blame ? 
Have I said or done any thing amiss ? No, 
I am sure I have not. When one does not 
feel love, one can not show it.” 

“ Some girls can, but not you. No, it is 
simply a misfortune, and not your fault at 
all. I will go and tell him the truth. He 
will get over it.” 

“ I hope so.” And I felt as if a load were 
taken off my heart, all the oppressive love 
(which I did not very much believe in), all 
the horses and carriages, houses, servants, 
and diamonds. I was again Elma Picardy, 
with her own free heart in her bosom, her 
heart which nobody wanted — at least no- 
body that could have it — and her life before 
her, straight and clear. Sad it might be, a 
little dreary perhaps sometimes, but it was 
quite clear. 

So we sat together. Cousin Conrad and I, 
having arranged this unpleasant business, 
sat in our old way, over the fire, talking a 
little before we bade good-night. 

“Isn’t it strange,” said he, “that I should 
always be mixed up with other people’s love 
affairs — I who have long given up every 
thing of the kind for myself? One would 
think I was a woman, and not a man, by 
the way people confide in me sometimes.” 

I thought it was because of the curious 
mixture of the woman in him, as there is 
in all good men, the very manliest of them ; 
but I only said it was “ because he was so 
kind.” 

“ It would be hard not to be kind, seeing 
how sad the world is, and how much every 


body has to suffer. You, too, Elma — I don’t 
expect you will find life a bed of roses. But 
I hope it will be a reasonably happy life, 
and not a lonely one like mine.” 

He paused a little, looking steadily into 
the fire, and folding his hands one upon the 
other, after his habit. 

“Not that I complain — all that is, is best. 
And no doubt I could change my life if I 
chose, since, without vanity, women are so 
good that I could probably get some kind 
soul to take me if I wished it. But I do not 
wish it. My health is so uncertain that I 
have no right to ask any young woman to 
marry me, and I am afraid I should not like 
an old one. So I’ll go on as I do, and per- 
haps finally die in the arms of a Sister of 
Charity.” 

He was not looking at me, or thinking of 
me ; probably he was thinking of her who 
died in his arms, and whom he would meet 
again one day. Suddenly he turned round 
and seized both my hands, with his whole 
aspect changed, the grave composed middle- 
aged face looking almost young, the sallow 
cheeks glowing, the lips quivering. 

“I hope you will have a happy life. I 
hope you will find some good man whom 
you love, who will love you and take care of 
you, ‘wear you in his bosom,’ as the song 
says, ‘ lest his jewel he should tine.’ For 
underneath that beauty which you despise 
so, Elma, is a rich jewel— your heart : and I 
am sure your mother knows it. If you see 
her before I return, tell her I said so. And 
good-night, my dear child.” 

He wrung my hands and quitted the room. 
Miserable girl that I was ! — until he named 
her I had wholly forgotten my mother ! 




CHAPTER XI. 



I HAD wished, in telling my story, to speak 
as little as possible of myself and my feel- 
ings, but it is difficult to avoid it, so vividly 
do I still recall the emotions of that time. 

If I were asked at what period of a wom- 
an’s life she is capable of the intensest love, 
the sharpest grief, I should say it was in her 
teens, when she is supposed too young to 
understand either, and late in life, when peo- 
ple think she ought to have done with both. 
Chiefly because, when young, we can scarcely 
take in the future ; when old, we know that 
for us the future exists no more. Therefore 
I am much more sorry for girls and middle- 
aged women, when “ in love,” as the phrase 
is, than I am for those in the prime of life, 


to whom that very fact brings strength and 
compensation. 

Falling asleep that night — or rather next 
morning, for it was daylight before I lost 
consciousness of myself and what had hap- 
pened to me within those thirty-six hours — 
I was a changed creature. Not a miserable 
creature at all, not in the least broken- 
hearted, only changed. 

I knew now that for me woman’s natural 
lot, to which my mother looked innocently 
forward, was not to be. I should never 
many, never give her the grandchildren that 
she used to laugh about, or the son-in-law 
that was to be the staff of her old age. For 
me, and for her through me, these felicities 
were quite at an end. Yet I did not grieve. 
I felt rather a kind of solemn contentment, 
a peaceful acceptance of every thing ; my 
lot, if not happy in the ordinary sense, would 
be very blessed, for I should never lose him ; 
he would never marry ; nobody was likely 
ever to be a nearer friend to him than I. 
And I might, in my own humble way, come 
very near to him. The chances of life were 
so many that to a faithful heart, continual- 
ly on the watch to do him good or to be of 
use to him, innumerable opportunities might 
arise. Nay, even if I were quite passive, 
never able to do any thing for him, I might 
still watch him from a distance, glory in his 
goodness, sympathize in his cares, and feel 
that I belonged to him, in some far-off way 
that nobody knew of, to the end of my days. 

That sad word he had let fall about the 
end of his days being so uncertain, did not 
affect me much. At my age, to one who has 
never come near it, death seems merely a 
phantom, often more beautiful than sad — a 
shadow that may fall upon others, but does 


80 


MY MOTHER AND I. 




not toncli ourselves. To me, with my heart 
full of new-born love, death seemed a thing 
unnatural and impossible. I never remem- 
ber thinking of him and it together, no more 
than if he had been immortal, as to me he 
truly was. 

Thus, after our conversation that night, I 
was quite happy, happier than I had ever 
been in my life before. My feeling was, in 
di dim sort of way, almost that of a person 
betrothed, betrothed to some one who had 
gone to a far country, or whom she could 
not possibly marry ; yet having a sense of 
settled peace such as girls never have whose 
hearts are empty and their destinies uncer- 
tain. Mine was, I believed, fixed forever ; 
I had no need to trouble about it any more. 

And though I was so young, not yet eight- 
een, what did it matter ? My grandmother 
was married at eighteen. So, in a sense, 
was I. I took one of my mother’s rings 
(the very few she possessed she had given 
me when I left her) and placed it on the third 
finger : now nobody need attempt to marry 
me any more. 

Three days passed by — three perfectly 
quiet days. My grandfather was not well, 
and kept his rooms. Mrs. Rix never said a 
word to me about Sir Thomas Appleton, or 
any thing. She was a little distant and 
cold, as if I had somehow done a foolish or 
naughty thing, and thereby made myself of 
much less value than I was a few days be- 
fore ; but that was all the difference I found 
in her. It was Cousin Conrad, I knew, who 
had smoothed matters down for me, even 
when absent, though how he managed it I 
never knew. 

The letter I had expected from my mother 
did not come, nor she herself either. It 
surprises me now to remember how calmly 
I took this, and how easily I satisfied my- 
self that, being quite unaware of the reason 
she had been sent for, she was waiting pa- 
tiently till my grandfather sent for her again. 
Also, though I watched the post daily with 
an anxiety that I tried hard to conceal, it 
was not entirely for my mother’s letters. 

Cousin Conrad had said that he should 
probably send me a line from London. A 
letter from him — a bit of his own hand- 
writing, and for me ! No wonder I waited 
for it, and rejoiced in it, when it came, with 
a joy the reflected shadow of which lingers 
even now. 

The merest line it was : 


“ Dear Cousin Elma, — T ell your mother 
I have procured the books she wanted, and 
hope to bring them to her next week, if she 
is not with you, as I trust she is. No more, 
for I am very busy, but always 

“ Your affectionate friend, 

^‘Conrad Picardy.” 

My affectionate friend !” It was enough 
— enough to make my life happy until the 
end. So I believed then ; perhaps I do still. 
The heart of life is the love that is in it, and 
the worthiness of the person loved. 

I wrote to my mother, giving Cousin Con- 
rad’s message, and scolding her gayly for 
not having come or written. I said, if she 
did not appear to-morrow, I should most 
certainly come and see her. Only come 
and see her; I did not suggest coming 
home for good. I reasoned with myself it 
would be so very much better for her to 
come here. 

All my happy dreams revived, all my plans 
concerning her and him, and how they would 
care for one another, and I for them both. 
As to myself, I must try to make myself 
worth caring for ; try to cultivate my mind, 
and even to make the most of my outside 
beauty, which he had told me I ‘‘despised.” 
He did not ; he liked beautiful people, and 
owned it. Was not Agnes beautiful, and, as 
Mrs. Rix once said, just a little like me ? 

Once or twice, by ingeniously guiding the 
conversation, I had got Mrs. Rix to talk of 
Agnes ; for I loved her almost as if she had 
been alive — loved them both together, for, 
in a human sense, both were equally distant 
from me — distant, yet so near ! The thought 
of him was now never absent from me for a 
single minute, not displacing other thoughts, 
but accompanying them like an under-cur- 
rent of singing birds or murmuring streams ; 
or, rather, it was most like what I have heard 
nursing mothers say when they went to sleep 
with a baby in their arms : they were never 
afraid either of harming or forgetting it, be- 
cause, waking or sleeping, they were always 
conscious it was there. So was I. My last 
sigh of prayer at night was for him ; my first 
feeling in the morning was how bright and 
happy the world seemed, since he was in it ! 
A world without him, a day in which I could 
not wake up to the thought of him, appeared 
now incredible and impossible. 

I know there are those who will smile, 
and call such a love, such a worship rather. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 81 


equally iucredible and impossible. I do 
not argue the point. That it was a truth 
my life has proved. 

The third day after that day so full of 
startling pain, yet ending in solemn con- 
tent, I was sitting peacefully sewing in my 
bedroom, whither, on any excuse, I was glad 
to creep. To be alone was the greatest bliss 
I knew. My watch, ticking on the table be- 
side me, was the only sound that broke the 
(juietness. I looked tenderly at its pretty 
white face, and thought of Cousin Conrad’s 
mother, and what a happy woman she must 
have been, and how I would have loved her 
had I known her. 

Then seeing it was near post-time, I list- 
ened, but not anxiously. It was unlikely 
he would write again before he came back 
on the following Wednesday, three days 
hence. Then he would be sure to come. 
One of his characteristics was exceeding 
punctuality and dependableness. If he had 
proniised to do a certain thing at a certain 
time, you might rely upon him that no 
whim, no fancy, no variable change of plan, 
nothing, in short, but inevitable necessity, 
would prevent his doing it. Down to the 
smallest trifles, he was the most conscien- 
tious person I ever knew. Once when I 
told him so he laughed, and said “ life was 
so full of work that if one did not take some 
trouble to make it all fit in together, like 
the wheels of a watch, the whole machinery 
soon went wrong.” 

But I am wandering from my actual story 
— wandering away to linger over this pic- 
ture of a perfect life. For his was an almost 
perfect life. Some women’s destiny is to 
love down, excusingly, pityingly. Thank 
God ! mine was to love up. 

I sat thinking of him, and wondering 
how he had settled that troublesome busi- 
ness in London which he had told me of — 
other people’s business, of course — sat as 
happy as I could be, as unconscious of the 
footstep of coming sorrow as (mercifully, I 
often think) we generally are until it knocks 
at our very door. Thus, for the second 
time, under Mrs. Rix’s fingers it knocked at 
mine. 

“Come down at once to the General; he 
has got a letter.” 

“ From my mother ?” But though I said 
“ my mother,” I thought not of her alone, 
and if I turned sick with dread, my fear was 
not wholly on her account. 

F 


“No, my poor dear girl, not exactly your 
mother. The doctor — ” 

“ Oh, she is ill ! she is ill !” And pushing 
Mrs. Rix aside, I ran down stairs like light- 
ning, and burst into my grandfather’s room. 
He gave me the letter at once. 

My darling mother ! Her week of silence, 
her not coming to Bath, as well as her anxi- 
ety to prevent my coming home, were now 
fully accounted for. Small -pox had been 
very much about in the village, and at last 
she had caught it — not dangerously ; the doc- 
tor said hers was a mild case ; still she had 
been very ill, and it would be some time yet 
before she was able to write. He wrote, by 
her desire, to my grandfather, explaining all, 
and entreating that I should be kept from 
coming to her. She had all the care she 
needed — himself, Mrs. Golding, and a hospi- 
tal nurse — and nothing must be risked for 
her child. On no account was I to come 
near her. 

“ Cruel ! cruel !” sobbed I, till I met my 
grandfather’s look of amazement. “ No, it 
is not cruel ; it is just like herself — just 
what she always told me she would do in 
such a case. She used to say that she 
should have lived alone but for me, and 
she could die alone, even without one sight 
of me, rather than harm me. Oh, mother ! 
mother !” 

I think my grandfather was touched, and 
that if he bore any grudge against me in 
the matter of Sir Thomas, he forgot it now. 
His tone and manner were extremely kind. 

“ Comfort yourself, my dear. You see all 
has gone well so far ; Mrs. Picardy is appar- 
ently out of danger, and no doubt will soon 
be convalescent. She was quite right to act 
as she did. I respect her for it, and shall tell 
the doctor so, desiring him to pay her all at- 
tention, and send news of her every day.” 

“News every day!” For in spite of all 
my mother’s prohibitions I had no thought 
but how fast I could get ready, and implor- 
ing for once to have the carriage, go home 
immediately. 

“Yes, every day, or every other day, as 
he says it is a mild case,” continued my 
grandfather, looking a little wearied of my 
tears. “ And if Mrs. Rix could suggest any 
thing to send her — wine or jelly, perhaps — 
provided we run no risk of infection. Par- 
don me, but I have a great horror of small- 
pox. In my young days it was an actual 
scourge. Two young ladies I knew had 


82 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


their prospects blighted for life by it ; but 
your excellent mother is neither ^very young 
nor — ” 

“ She is beautiful — beautiful to me I” cried 
I, indignantly. “ She is every thing that is 
sweet and precious to me. Oh, if she had 
only told me she was ill — if I could have 
gone to her days ago 

‘‘You do not mean to say you are going 
now V’ 

Had I meant it ? I can not tell. I was 
silent. 

“ Such a step,” my grandfather continued, 
“would be most imprudent. She herself 
forbids it, and I respect her for doing so. 
You could not benefit her, and you might 
destroy your prospects for life.” 

Destroy my prospects for life ! Probably 
because he too considered that my face was 
my fortune, and the small-pox might spoil 
me and prevent my being married by some 
other Sir Thomas Appleton ! That thought 
settled my mind at once. 

I said, with a quietness that surprised my- 
self, considering the storm of grief and rage 
within me, “ I do not care for my prospects. 
Since it is for my sake only that my mother 
forbids my going to her, I mean to disobey 
her, and go.” 

Then, for the first time, I saw what my 
grandfather could be when he was contra- 
dicted. Peace be to him ! I had rather not 
l emember any thing he said, nor recall the 
expression of his noble and handsome old 
face as I saw it just then. He must, as I 
found out afterward, have built many hopes 
and plans upon poor me, the last of his di- 
rect line, and it was hard to have them dis- 
appointed. 

“You will understand one thing,” said he 
at last, his wrath turning from a red into a 
white heat, equally powerful and more dan- 
gerous, “when you quit this house against 
my will, you quit it forever. All that I mean 
to give you I shall leave to your cousin Con- 
rad. You hear me ?” 

“ Oh yes !” And I was so glad — glad that 
he should have all, and I nothing, that in 
any way my loss should be his gain. But 
the next minute I heard something more. 

“Now, Elma, I will detain you no longer. 
If you have your vexations, I have mine. 
Only this morning Conrad writes to tell me 
he is going back to India immediately.” 

I have heard people who have suffered 
sudden anguishes say that it is like a gun- 


shot wound, which at first does not hurt at 
all. The struck man actually stands upright 
a minute, sometimes with a smile on his face, 
before he drops. So it was with me. 

Had my grandfather seen me, I believe 
there would have been nothing to see ; but 
he put his hand over his face, and spoke 
querulously rather than angrily. 

“So make up your mind — ^if any woman 
ever could make up her mind. Stay, and 
I will send daily for news of your mother. 
Go, and though it is a fooks errand, my car- 
riage shall, take yon there in safety. But, 
remember, you do not return. Adieu now. 
In an hour let me have your decision.” 

He rose, and bowed me out of his study 
with cold politeness — me, a poor girl whose 
mother was dying 1 

But I did not believe that ; indeed, I must 
have accepted blindly the doctor’s statement 
that it was a mild case, and the worst over, 
and I must have deluded my conscience in 
the most extraordinary way as to the sin of 
disobeying my grandfather as well as my 
mother. Still, looking back, I can pity my- 
self. It was a hard strait for a poor girl to 
be in, even without that other thing, which 
nobody knew of. 

But I knew it. I, the inner me, was per- 
fectly well aware that my worst struggle 
was with another pang, and that the diffi- 
culty of choice sprang from quite another 
motive thai^ the dread of vexing my grand- 
father, or even of saving myself — ^my own 
young life and my pretty face, which had, 
nevertheless, grown strangely dear to me 
of late. 

If I went back to my mother, and Cousin 
Conrad went to India in a month, I should 
not see him again — perhaps never in this 
world. For even if he wished to come to 
bid me good-by, my grandfather would pre- 
vent it. I, too, perhaps. Of course I should 
treat him exactly as my mother had treated 
me, and shut the door of our infected house 
upon him, even though it broke my heart. 
Therefore, if I went away to-day, I should 
never look upon his face, never hear the 
sound of his voice — never any more ! 

Oh, my God ! my God ! 

I believe I did instinctively cry out that 
upon Him, conscious for the first time in 
my brief life that He has it in His power 
to take away the desire of our eyes at a 
stroke. My mother — Cousin Conrad — I 
might lose them both. Nay, by holding to 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


83 


one I should infallibly lose the other. What 
must I do ? 

I did that which we are all so prone to 
do — I temporized. I said to myself that for 
a girl like me to fly in the face of her grand- 
father and her mother was very wrong ; that 
if I literally obeyed them, whatever follow- 
ed, they could not blame me. At any rate, 
I would obey till Wednesday, when I should 
see Cousin Conrad, and could ask him, whose 
judgment of right and wrong was so clear 
and firm, what I ought to do. 

Oh, sad sophistry ! trying with vain argu- 
ments to reason myself into doing what I 
wanted to do, following the compulsion of 
an emotion so overwhelming, an agony so 
sharp and new, that I could not comprehend 
it or myself. Even with my mother in my 
heart all the time, wretched about her, long- 
ing to go and take care of her, I felt that 
at all risks, at all costs, I must stay and look 
on that other face, the only face that ever 
came between me and hers, just once more. 

Within an hour I knocked at my grand- 
father’s door, and told him I would stay, at 
any rate, for one day more — I dared not say 
two days, lest he might guess why. But no ; 
he seemed almost to have forgotten what I 
came about till I reminded him. 

‘‘Certainly, certainly; we will send a mes- 
senger off at once to inquire, and I hope your 
mother will be quite well soon. She is sure 
to agree with me that you have aeted wisely. 
And, for myself, I am much gratified by your 
remaining with me. When Conrad is gone, 
I shall have only you left to be a comfort to 
my old age.” 

He patted my hand almost with tender- 
ness. Oh, what a hypocrite I felt ! 

Most of those two days I spent in his 
study. He seemed to like to have me, and 
I liked to be there. It was easier to busy 
myself in doing things for him than to sit 
with my hands before me, thinking, or listen- 
ing to Mrs. Rix’s terrible flow of talk. Poor 
woman, she was so torturingly kind to me — 
helped me pack up the basket of good things, 
giving strict injunctions that it should be 
dropped outside the door, and that the mes- 
senger should on no account go in. She 
liovered over me while I wrote the letter 
that was to accompany it, sympathizing with 
ray torrents of tears, yet telling me no end 
of stories about families she knew who had 
been swept off wholesale by the small-pox, 
or made hideous for life. 


“ If it were any thing but small-pox, my 
dear, I should say, go at once. A mother is 
a mother, you know. When mine was in 
her last illness I sat up with her night after 
night for three weeks. The last forty-eight 
hours I never left her for an instant — not 
till the breath was out of her body. I closed 
her eyes my own self, my dear, and thankful 
too, for she had suffered very much.” 

“Oh, be quiet! be quiet!” I almost scream- 
ed; and then the good woman kissed me, 
with her tears running down, and was silent 
— for about three minutes. 

Her next attempt to change the subject 
was concerning “poor Major Picardy” and 
his sudden return to India, wondering why 
he went, when he could so easily have re- 
tired on half-pay or sold out ; in the course 
of nature it could not be very long before 
he came in for the Picardy estate. “The 
property he must have ; though, as I told 
you, your grandfather can leave the ready 
money to any body else — you, perhaps, since 
he is much vexed at the Major’s departure. 
Besides, India doubles the risk of his health, 
and if he dies, where is the estate to go to ? 
— not that he is likely ever to be an old 
man. Still he might pull on with care, poor 
fellow ! for a good many years. But I sup- 
pose he thinks it does not much matter 
whether his life is long or short, seeing he 
has neither wife nor child. He said as much 
to me the other day.” 

I did not believe that; it was contrary 
to his reticent character ; but I believed 
a great deal. And I listened — listened as 
a St. Sebastian must have listened to the 
whiz of each arrow that struck him — until 
I felt something like the picture of that poor 
young saint in the National Gallery which my 
mother and I used to stop and look at. She 
was rather fond of pictures in the old days. 

Ah, those days ! Six months ago I would 
no more have thought of keeping away ffom 
her when she was ill, had she commanded it 
ever so, than of not pulling her out of a river 
for fear of wetting my hand ! Sometimes, 
strangely as I was deceiving myself about 
the duty of obedience, and so on, there flash- 
ed across me a vivid sense of what a cow- 
ardly, selfish wreteh I was, even though my 
motive was no foolish fear for my pretty 
face, or even my poor young life, the whole 
preciousness of which hung on other lives, 
which might or might not last. 

Once, on the Tuesday evening, when I 


84 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


was taking a walk with Mrs. Rix, who had 
benignly given up a card-party, when the 
birds were singing their last sleepy song, 
the sky was so clear and the earth so sweet, 
1 had such a vision of my mother lying sick 
in her bed, all alone, perhaps neglected — at 
any rate without me beside her, me, her own 
daughter, who kuew all her little ways, and 
could nurse her as no one else could — that 
a great horror seized me. Had it not been 
night, I believe I should have started olf 
that minute and gone to her, even .had I 
walked the whole way. 

With difficulty Mrs. Rix got me to go iu 
and go to bed — Mrs. Rix, the poor dear 
woman whose arguments I despised ; yet I 
yielded, saying to myself, “ It is only twelve 
hours to wait.” 

Wait for what? The message from my 
mother or the one more look at Cousin Con- 
rad^s face, the one last clasp of his hand, 
and then it would all be shut up in my heart 
forever — the love he did not care for, the 


grief he could not see. I should just bid 
him good-by, an ordinary good-by, and go 
back to my mother to begin again the old 
life — with a difference. But the difference 
only concerned myself. Nobody else should 
be troubled by it. If I were careful, even 
she should not find it out. 

So, with a kind of stolid patience, and ac- 
ceptance of whatever might happen, with- 
out struggling against it any more, I laid me 
down to sleep that Tuesday night, and woke 
up on Wednesday morning — a very bright 
sunshiny morning, I remember, it was — 
much as those wake up who, in an hour or 
two, are to be led outside their prison walls 
to feel the sunshine, to see the blue sky, just 
for a few minutes, and then, in their full 
young strength, with every capacity of en- 
joyment, “ aimer et d’dtre aim6” (as wrote a 
young Frenchman, Roussel, who thus per- 
ished in the terrible later revolution that 
I have lived to see), be placed blindfold 
against a wall and — shot. 



CHAPTER XII. 


I SPENT most of tlie Wednesday morning 
in ray grandfather’s study, reading aloud his 
daily newspaper, writing some letters, and 
doing other little things for him which Cous- 
in Conrad was used to do. 

‘‘But you may as well begin to learn 
to help me ; there will be nobody else to 
do it when he is gone,” said the old man, 
sadly. 

One quality, which my mother used to say 
was the balance-weight that guided all oth- 
ers, she often thought me sorely deficient in 
— self-control. I think I began to learn it 
during those last days, and especially that 
Wednesday morning. 

Several times my grandfather praised 
me quite afifeafeiouately for my “ quietness.” 
“One might suppose you were two or three 
and twenty, my dear, instead of not yet 
eighteen.” 

Not yet eighteen ! What a long, dreary 
expanse of life seemed before me, if I took 
after him and the family (the Picardys, save 
during this last generation, have been a long- 
lived race), and attained to the mysterious 
threescore years and ten ! Yet, in a sort of 
way, he was happy still. 

But I — I shivered at the prospect, and 
wondered how I should ever bear it all. 

Now I wonder no more. I think it will 
be so. Like him, I shall probably live to 
extreme old age ; the last leaf on the tree : 
very lonely, but not forlorn. Yet I accept 
the fact, and do not complain. God never 
leaves any life without sunshine while it 
can find its sunshine in His smile. 

Cousin Conrad had not said what time he 
should arrive, and I thought every ring at the 
hall bell was his. When at last he came, it 
was without any warning. He just walk- 


ed in as if he had left us yesterday, and all 
things were the same as yesterday. 

“ General ! Cousin Lima ! How very cozy 
you look, sitting together!” And he held 
out a hand to us both. 

Then he sat down, and he and my grand- 
father fell into talk at once about his going 
to India. 

I would have slipped away, but nobody 
told me to go away, or seemed to make any 
more account of me than if I were a chair or 
table. So I took up a book and staid. It 
would have been dreadful to have to go. 
Even a few additional minutes in his pres- 
ence w^as something. Of my own affairs 
nobody said a word, and for the moment 
all remembrance of them passed from me. 
I only sat in my corner and gazed and 
gazed. 

He looked ill, and perhaps a shade graver 
than usual ; but the sweet expression of the 
mouth was unchanged, and so was the won- 
derful look in the eyes, calm, far-away, 
heavenly — such as I have never seen in any 
human eyes but his. 

At that moment, ay, and many a time, I 
thought if I could just have died for him 
without his knowing it — died and left him 
happy for the rest of his life; yes, even 
though it had been with some other woman 
— how content I should have been ! 

My grandfather and he began talking 
earnestly. To all the General’s arguments 
he answered very little. 

“ No, I have no particular reason for going 
— at least, none of any consequence to any 
body but myself. As you say, perhaps I am 
weary of idleness, and there lies work which 
I can do, and come back again in a few years.” 

“ To find me in my grave.” 


86 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


“ Not you ; you will be a bale octogena- 
rian, and that young lady,” turning to look 
for me, will be a blooming young matron. 
By-tbe-bye, Cousin Elma, did you give my 
message to your mother? I bope sbe is 
quite well.” 

I could bear no more. I burst into vio- 
lent sobs. He came over to me at once. 

“Wbat is tbe matter? Wbat bas hap- 
pened?” Then in a whisper, ‘‘Surely my 
little jest did not offend you ?” 

Evidently be knew nothing; but my 
grandfather soon told him all. 

“Wbat! her mother ill, and Elma still 
here ?” 

This was all be said. Not in any reproach 
or blame, but in a kind of sad surprise. At 
once, as by a flash of lightning, I saw the 
right and the wrong of things ; how I had 
acted, and what he must have thought of 
me for so acting, 

“ She is here because I would not allow 
her to go,” said my grandfather, hastily and 
half apologetically, as if he too had read 
Cousin Conrad's look. “ Mrs. Picardy her- 
self, with extreme good sense, forbade her 
coming. Think what a risk the girl would 
run. As a man of the world, Conrad, you 
must be aware that with her beauty — -” 

“Yes, I am aware of every thing; but 
still I say she should have gone.” 

It was spoken very gently, so gently that 
even my grandfather could not take offense. 
For me, all I did was frantically to implore 
Cousin Conrad to help me, to persuade my 
grandfather to let me go. I would run any 
risks. I did not care what happened to my- 
self at all. 

“I know that, poor child. Hush! and I 
will try to arrange it for you.” 

He put me into an arm-chair, very tender- 
ly, and stood by me, holding my hand, as a 
sort of protection, if such were needed. But 
it was not. Either my grandfather had seen 
his mistake, or did not care very much about 
the matter either way, so that he was not 
“ bothered ;” or else — let me give the highest 
and best motive to him, as we always should 
to every body — before many more words had 
been said he felt by instinct that Cousin Con- 
rad was right. 

“Elma has shown her good feeling and 
obedience to me by not going at first,” said 
he, with dignity. “ Now if you think it ad- 
visable, and if, as I suppose, the risk is near- 
ly over — ” 


“ No, it is not over. Do not let us deceive 
ourselves.” Was it fancy, or did I feel the 
kind hand closed tighter over mine ? “ For 
all that, she ought to go.” 

At that moment Mrs. Rix came in, looking 
very mucli troubled. She had met the mes- 
senger returning with the news that “ Mrs. 
Picardy was not quite so well to-day.” 

“ Order the carriage at once,” said my 
grandfather, abruptly. 

Then there was a confused hurrying of me 
out of the room, packing up of my things, 
talking, talking — poor kind Mrs. Rix could 
do nothing without talking ! — but in spite 
of all the haste, at the end of an hour I was 
still standing in my bedroom, watching ston- 
ily every body doing every thing for me. 
Oh, they were so kind, so terribly kind, as 
people constantly are to those unto whom 
they think something is going to happen ; 
and they gave me endless advice about nurs- 
ing my mother and saving myself — I who 
knew nothing at all about small-pox or any 
kind of illness, who had never in my life been 
laid on a sick-bed or stood beside one ! They 
were sorry for me, I think ; for I remember 
even the little kitchen-maid coming up and 
pressing a little bag of camphor into my 
hand. 

“ Take care of yourself, miss ; oh, do take 
care of your pretty face,” said she ; but I 
paid no attention to her or any body. 

The one person who did not come near me 
was Cousin Conrad. I thought I should 
have had to go without bidding him good- 
by, when I saw him standing at the draw- 
ing-room door. 

“ Here, Mrs. Rix, I want to consult you.” 

And then he explained that he had fetched 
a doctor, whose new theory it was that sec- 
ond vaccination was a complete preservative 
against small-pox — that every thing was 
ready to do it if I would consent. 

“You will not refuse? You think only 
of your mother. But I — we — must think 
also of you.” 

“ Thank you,” I said ; “ you are very kind.” 
He could not help being kind to any creature 
in trouble. 

Without more ado I bared my arm. I re- 
member I wore what in those days was called 
a tippet and sleeves, so it was easy to get at 
it ; but when the doctor took out his case of 
instruments I began to tremble a little. 

“Will it hurt much? — Not that I mind.” 
In truth I should not have minded being 


FOU AM. TUATj SUE OtTGIIT TO GO. 












/ » . 




. \ 





/ 


t I 




'' '' '■ 'i;:^' ' 

i' A * I '' ‘ ; ‘.M*. . ■ ‘ »^' ^ ^ 

.•: ■ • ■ ■ ■’ ■■ ■ ./• ' 

. • # -.i» ' ■ ■. : 1 . . • I**- I 


V' V ■'■•:^r;-'.. ■ 



*' ' ' ■' i^’TpV- . ’v , '. '.V' '■■''■^- ' -r ;■'. w ■-. ■ ■' - >. • *■ '■• ■■'• ■'■ ' > - 


'• .-tK .\ 

‘i>:> - ■ 


^ I 

* V 

**• .Kt.“ '< 



‘ '^■■.- ' ■ ••■ I ... ■., ■ ': ■** ^'; \^ ■> .- ’ iT-' •'• ■' •• -.. .v.- . r’- J ■ ■ . 

IS'''-' -J ' '‘*'1 ^ '■•':'! \ ^ ^ ^ 'i ' . •' -•■.> 


.»■ 


1 



w 


‘-' - 



C- ' '•' ' • "' 

Tr»’A , • 

■ ' - •' •' ' • ■■ n''. ' j-.. ' : ' 


!■* C I 




Si 


.( 4 




.■-A.*’ 


r • ^ 

«• » . '^‘.1 


- 0 ^-: . ' 


«• ■*, • t : y.* •■ /•' ^ , ,• • ‘ 

7 '' mm '' ; 




r , 




: w 


I:" 




*1 . . 

:•!' t 


f ^ 


I 


»’l 


•s -y • '1 •■ •. 

I » 

4 

[f ■* 


> ^ 


• • • • il 'w* '* ' 


• J.H ^ ^ 




■ii. ..- 

w - • •■ I , .- .i 


. J I • ' 



(• ^ 




. 'l 


h > 


<*'« ^ 


.. y, ■>V'-';^.A'' »-ti' ■•■.'*■•-, -:'.v.- A- ' ; , .. . . ’'H 

^ ^ ; — 

■ '\%' " rH - ., < -“ ■ ... -'V. 


. - ■ §: 


if 




. 4 




' I *. 


* ^ 


"^v 


* • » . 

* ' ' > 

- »A» < . 


5 i^= 


I f 

K . 


i/:- 





A A 


V * 





1 


A 



MY MOTHER AND I. 


89 



killed, witli his hand to hold by, and his 
pitying eyes looking on. 

“ Do not be frightened. It hurts no more 
than the prick of a pin,’’ said Cousin Conrad, 
cheerfully, “only it leaves a rather ugly 
mark. Stop a minute, doctor. Mrs. Rix, 
push the sleeve a little further up. Do not 
let us spoil her pretty arm.” 

The doctor called for somebody to hold it. 

“ I will,” he said, seeing Mrs. Rix looked 
frightened. She said she could not bear the 
sight of the smallest “surgical operation.” 
“ Not that this is one. But if it were,” add- 
ed he, with a look I have never forgotten, 
never, through all these years, “I think I 
should prefer nobody to hurt you but me.” 


There was a silent minute, and then the 
doctor paused. 

“ I forgot to ask if this young lady is like- 
ly to be in the way of small-pox just at pres- 
ent, because, if so, vaccination might double 
the risk instead of lessening it. She ought 
to keep from every chance of infection for 
ten or twelve days.” 

I said, with strange quietness, “ It is of no 
consequence : I must go. My mother may be 
dead in ten or twelve days.” 

Cousin Conrad stopped the surgeon’s hand. 
“ If it be so, what are we doing ? In truth 
I hardly know what I am doing. Let me 
think a moment.” 

I saw him put his hand to his head. Then 


90 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


he and the doctor retired together, and talked 
apart. I sat still a minute or two, and fol- 
lowed them. 

‘‘ I can not wait — I must go.’’ 

^‘You shall go, poor child,” said Cousin 
Conrad. He was very white — long after- 
ward I remembered this too — but he spoke 
quietly, soothingly, as to a child. “ Listen ; 
this is the difficult question. If you are vac- 
cinated, and go at once to your mother, you 
have no chance of escaping the disease ; if 
you are not vaccinated afresh, there is just 
a chance that the old protection may re- 
main. He does not say you will escape, but 
you may. Will you try it ? If you must go, 
you ought to go at once. Shall you go ?” 

‘‘Of course I shall.” 

He drew a deep breath. “ I thought she 
would. Doctor, you see ?” 

“ She runs a great risk,” said the old man, 
looking at me compassionately. 

“I know that — nobody better than I. 
Still, she must go. Come, Elma, and b^d 
your grandfather good-by.” 

He drew my arm through his, and we went 
down stairs together, Mrs. Rix following us. 
She was crying a little — kind, soft-hearted 
woman ! — but I could not cry at all. 

My grandfather, too, was very kind. “ A 
sad departure, Elma. We shall all miss you 
very much — shall we not, Conrad ? Such a 
bit of young bright life among us old folks !” 

“ Yes,” said he. 

“Good-by, my dear, and God bless you. 
Kiss me.” 

I did so, clinging to him as I had never 
clung to any body except my mother. My 
heart was breaking. All my cry now was 
to go to my mother. Indeed, the strain was 
becoming so dreadful, minute by minute, 
that I was longing to be away. 

“ Is any body going in the carriage with 
you ?” said my grandfather. 

Eagerly I answered that I wanted nobody, 
I had rather be alone ; that I wished no one 
to come near our house, or to run the slight- 
est danger of infection. And then they 
praised me, my grandfather and Mrs. Rix, 
for my good sense and right feeling. One 
person only said nothing at all ! 

Not till the very last moment, when I was 
in the carriage and he standing by it — 
standing bare-headed in the sunshine, look- 
ing so old, so worn. And oh, what a bright 
day it was ! How happy aU the world seem- 
ed, except me ! 


“ If I do not come with you, it is not from 
fear of infection. You never thought it 
was ?” 

“No.” 

“ That is right. And now think solely of 
nursing your mother and taking care of your- 
self. Take all the care you can. You prom- 
ise ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then good-by, and God bless you, my 
dearest child.” 

He said that — those very words. Con- 
fused as I was, I was sure of this. 

A minute more, and I was gone. Gone 
away from him, from the sound of his voice 
and the sight of his face ; gone away into 
darkness, anxiety, and pain: how sharp a 
pain I did not even then sufficiently recog- 
nize. 

For there was remorse mixed with it — re- 
morse that, in my passionate exaggeration 
of girlhood, felt to me like “ the worm tha't 
dieth not, the fire that is never quenched.” 
From the moment that the glamour passed 
away, and I got into the old familiar scenes 
— even before I entered the village — the 
gnawing pain began. There was no need 
of Mrs. Golding’s bitter welcome, “ So, Miss 
Picardy, you’re come at last, and high time 
too !” — no need of her sarcastic answer that 
my mother was “going on quite well, and 
perfectly well attended to,” to smite me to 
the very heart. 

“Beg your pardon, miss, but as nobody 
expected you, the parlor isn’t ready; and 
of course you won’t think of going up 
stairs.” 

I never answered a word, but just began 
to feel my way up the narrow staircase. Aft- 
er Royal Crescent, how narrow and dark it 
seemed, and how close and stuffy the whole 
house was ! Yet here my mother had been 
lying, alone, sick unto death, without me ; 
while I — oh me, oh me ! would God ever for- 
give me ? She would, I knew ; but He ? Or 
should I ever forgive myself? 

I think the sharpest conscience-sting of 
all is that which nobody knows of except 
one’s self. Now no creature said to me a 
word of blame. Eveu Mrs. Golding, after 
her first sharp welcome, left me alone, too 
busy to take the slightest notice of me or 
my misdeeds. She and all the house seemed 
absorbed in their nursing. There could be 
no doubt how well my mother was loved, 
how tenderly she had been cared for. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


91 


But I — I was made no more account of 
than a stock or a stone. 

“You can’t go in,” said Mrs. Golding, 
catching hold of me just as I reached the 
familiar door. “Nobody sees her hut the 
nurse and me. And she doesn’t want you. 
She begged and prayed that we wouldn’t 
tell you; and when you was obliged to be 
told, that we’d keep you away from her. 
Bless her, poor dear lady, she might have 
saved herself that trouble.” 

I groaned in the anguish of my heart. 

“Hold your tongue, or she’ll hear you. 
She can’t see, hut her ears are sharp enough. 
For all she said about your not being allow- 
ed to come, she’s been listening, listening 
every day.” 

“ I must go in — I will go in.” 

“ No, you won’t. Miss Picardy.” 

And without more argument, the old wom- 
an pushed me into the little room beside my 
mother’s, shut the door, and set her hack 
against it. 

“ Here you are, and here you may stop ; 
for you’re not of the least good any where 
else in the house. I’m sorry the room’s so 
smaU — after them at Royal Crescent — and 
dull for a young lady as has been going 
to dancing-parties and card-parties every 
night ; hut it’s all we can do for you just at 
present. By-and-hy, when your mother 
gets better, if she does get better, and God 
only knows — ” 

But here even the hard old woman grew 
softer at the sight of my despair. 

Does any body know what it is — the de- 
spair of having forsaken a mother, and such 
a mother as mine ? 

In all her life she had never forgotten me, 
never ceased to make me her first object, 
first delight ; and now, in her time of need, I 
had forgotten her, had put her in the second 
place, had allowed other interests and other 
enjoyments to fill my heart. And when it 
came to the point, I had taken advantage of 
her generous love, seized upon every feeble 


excuse to stay away from her, left to stran- 
gers the duty of nursing her ; ay, and they 
had done it, while her own daughter had 
contented herself with mere superficial in- 
quiries, and never come near her bedside. 

This, let people pity and excuse me as 
they might — and Mrs. Golding, to soothe me, 
did make some kindly excuses at last — was 
the plain truth of the matter. However 
others might he deceived, I could not de- 
ceive myself. If, as they hinted, my mother 
were to die, I should never he happy again — 
never in this world. 

And there I was, hound hand and foot as 
it were ; close to her, yet unable to go near 
her, or do any thing for her ; shut up in that 
tiny room, afraid to stir or speak lest she 
should find out I was there, which, in her 
critical state, both the nurse and the doctor 
agreed might he most dangerous. I spoke 
to them both, and they spoke to me those 
few meaningless encouraging words that 
people say in such circumstances ; and then 
they left me, every body left me, to pass hour 
after hour in listening for every sound with- 
in that solemn, quiet sick-chamber. 

All the day, and half of the night, I sat 
there, perfectly passive, resisting nothing 
except Mrs. Golding’s efforts to get me to 
bed. “ What was the use of my sitting up ? 
I was no good to nobody.” 

Ah ! that was the misery of it. I was “ no 
good to nobody!” And with my deep de- 
spair there mingled a mad jealousy of all 
those who were any good, who were doing 
every thing they could think of for my dar- 
ling mother, while I sat there like a stone. 

Oh, it served me right — quite right. Ev- 
ery thing was a just punishment, for — what ? 

I did not even ask myself what. I gave 
no name to the thing — the joy or the pain — 
which had been at the bottom of all. From 
the moment I had crossed this threshold my 
whole life at Bath seemed to pass away — like 
a dream when one awakes — as completely as 
if it had never been. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



“ Sleeping for sorrow.” Some people 
know what that is, especially when they 
are young ; they know, also, how terrible is 
the waking. 

About midnight I had thrown myself on 
the bed in my clothes. Just before dawn a 
twittering swallow outside woke me, shiv- 
ering with cold, wondering where I was, and 
why I was still dressed. Then the whole 
truth poured upon me like a flood. 

After a while I gathered strength and 
confidence enough to get up and listen. All 
was quiet in the next room, dead quiet. 
Even the faint, slow stirring of the fire, the 
last sound I had caught before falling asleep, 
had ceased. Who was there ? What was 


happening? I opened my door noiselessly 
— the other door stood ajar, so that I could 
look in. Every thing was half dark; the 
fire had dropped into red embers ; the nurse 
sat beside it, asleep in her chair. The bed 
I could not see, but I heard from it faint 
breathing, and now and then a slight moan. 

Oh, my mother ! my mother ! 

She was saying her prayers — all alone, in 
the middle of the night, with not a creature 
to love her or comfort her ; sick, dying per- 
haps — dying without one sight of me. She 
was saying to herself the words which, she 
once told me, had been her consolation her 
whole life through — “Our Father,” and 
“ Thy will be done.” 

My heart felt like to burst. But the self- 
control which she had tried vainly to teach 
me, until God taught me in a different way, 
stood me in good stead now. Hiding behind 
the door, I succeeded in keeping myself per- 
fectly quiet. 

By-and-by she called feebly for “ some wa- 
ter to drink,” but getting no answer, turned 
over again with a patient sigh. 

What should I do ? wake the nurse, or go 
to my mother myself — I who had been so 
cruelly shut out from her ? But what if, as 
they said, I did her harm ? I had had no 
experience whatever of sickness or sick-nurs- 
ing. Suppose at the mere sight of me she 
should get startled, excited ? And then I 
remembered, almost with relief, that she 
could not see me. The small-pox had, as 
often happens, for the time being made her 
totally blind. 

She called again upon the stupid, sleep- 
ing nurse — well, poor woman, she had not 
been to bed for eight nights! — and called in 
vain. Then I determined to risk it. Step- 



93 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


ping stealthily forward, I came beside the 
bed, and looked at my darling mother. Oh, 
what a sight ! 

Once I heard a poor lady say, threatened 
with heart-complaint, “ Thank God, it is a 
clean disease to die of!” and the horror of 
so many of those illnesses which we have to 
fight with and suffer from is that they are 
just the contrary — so terribly painful both 
to the sick and those about them. Small- 
pox is one of these. 

My mother had it in a comparatively mild 
form ; that is, the eruption had not extended 
beyond the face and head. Yet there she 
lay — she, once so sweet and pure that kissing 
her was, I sometimes said, like kissing a 
bunch of violets — one mass of unpleasant- 
ness, soreness, and pain. 

Wearily she moved her head from side to 
side, evidently not knowing where to lay it 
for ease, talking to herself between whiles 
in a helpless, patient way, “Oh, the long, 
long night! — Oh, I wish it was morning! — 
Nurse ! nurse ! Isn’t there any body to give 
me a drink of water V’ 

Then I hesitated no more. Ignorant as I 
was, and half stupid with misery besides, I 
managed to lift her up in the bed, and hold 
the glass to her lips with a perfectly steady 
hand, afterward re-arranging her pillows, 
and making her, she said, “ so comfortable.” 
This I did not once, but several times. Yet 
she never found me out. She said, “ Thank 
you, nurse,” and seemed a little surprised at 
not being answered ; but that was all. Sick- 
ness was too heavy upon her to take much 
notice of any thing. And then the nurs- 
ing she had had was mere mechanical doing 
of what was necessary, not caressingly, not 
what a daughter’s would have been. Poor 
darling ! as she lay back again in her pa- 
tient darkness, not seeming even to expect 
any thing — not one soothing word or touch 
— her poor hands folded themselves in the 
same meek resignation. 

“ Pray go to your bed, nurse. I will try 
to go to sleep again.” 

I kept silence. It was for her sake, and I 
did it ; but it was one of the hardest things 
I ever had to do in all my life. Until morn- 
ing I sat beside my mother, she utterly un- 
conscious of my presence, and I thinking of 
nothing and nobody but her. 

Yes; it was so. The sight of her poor 
face blotted out entirely every other face — 
even his. This was the real life — the dream- 


life was gone. As I sat there, quite quiet 
now, not even crying silently, as at first I 
had done, all I said to myself was that vow 
which another girl made, not to her own 
mother, only her mother-in-law, “ God do so 
to me, and more also, if aught but death pai’t 
thee and me.” 

I think I could have restrained myself, and 
managed so cleverly that for hours my moth- 
er might never have found me out, had not 
Mrs. Golding suddenly entered the room with 
a flash of daylight, waking up the nurse, and 
coming face to face with me as I sat keep- 
ing watch in her stead. 

“ Bless my soul ! you here ? Go away di- 
rectly.” 

I said in a whisper, but with a resolution 
she could not mistake, “ I shall not go away. 
I have been here half the night. No one 
shall nurse my mother but me.” 

Sick people often take things much more 
quietly than we expect. All things come 
alike to them ; they are surprised at noth- 
ing. My mother only said — 

“ Mrs. Golding, who is it that you want to 
send away ? Who says she has been sitting 
with me half the night ? Was it my child ?” 

“Yes, mother darling, and you’ll let me 
stay ? I’ll be such a good nurse — and. I’ll 
never go to sleep at all.” 

She laughed, a little, low, contented laugh, 
and put out her hand ; then suddenly seem- 
ed to recollect herself, and drew it back. 

“ You ought not to have come — ^I told you 
not to come.” 

“ It is too late now, for I have been here, 
as I said, half the night ; and didn’t I make 
you comfortable ?” 

“ Oh, so comfortable ! Oh, how glad I 
am to have my child !” 

This was all she said, or I. People do not 
talk much under such circumstances. Even 
Mrs. Golding forbore to blame or scold, but 
stood with the tea-cup in her hand until a 
large tear dropped into it. Then she gave 
it up to me, and disappeared. 

The nurse followed her, a little vexed per- 
haps ; but they both recovered themselves in 
time, and allowed me to take my place be- 
side my mother without much opposition. 
Truly I was, as they said, “ a young, igno- 
rant, helpless thing,” but they saw I tried 
to do my best, and it was my right to do it. 

So I did it, making a few mistakes, no 
doubt, out of utter inexperience; but out 
of carelessness, never. My whole mind was 


94 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


set upon one thing — how I could best take 
care of my mother. Of those words which, 
when uttered, had shot through me with 
such a sense of joy, Take care of yourself,” 
I never once thought again, or of him who 
had said them. For the first time in my 
life I learned the utter absorption of a sick- 
room — how every thing seems to centre 
within its four narrow walls, and every thing 
in the world without seems to fade away and 
grow dim in the distance. No fear of my 
forgetting my mother now. 

It was very painful sick-nursing, the most 
painful, I think, I ever knew, and I have 
known much in my lifetime. The mere 
physical occupation of it put out every oth- 
er thought, leaving no single minute for ei- 
ther hopes or fears. To keep stolidly on, 
doing every thing that could be done, day 
by day, and hour by hour — that was all. 
As for dread of infection, or anxiety as to 
what would happen next, to her or to me, I 
do not remember even thinking of these 
things. Except that it was just her and 
me, my mother and I, as heretofore, shut up 
together in that one room, with the eye of 
God looking upon us — we uncertain what 
it would be His will to do, whether, in any 
way, either by taking her and leaving me, 
or healing her and smiting me — I deserved 
it ! oh, how intensely I sometimes felt that 
I deserved it ! — He would part mother and 
child. 

He did it not. She slowly recovered, and 
by one of those mysterious chances which 
now and then occur with small-pox, I, though 
running every danger of it, never took the 
disease. They all watched me — I could see 
how they watched me, with a kind of anx- 
ious pity that I never felt for myself ; but 
day after day went by, and still I kept per- 
fectly well, able for all that I had to do, 
never once breaking down either in body or 
mind. My mother sometimes followed me 
about the room with a tender content in her 
eyes. 

I used to wonder what sort of woman my 
Child would grow up — now I know.” 

We had “turned the tables,” she and I; 
she was weak, I strong. Naturally, illness 
made her a little restless and querulous ; I 
was always calm. In fact, as I told her, 
laughing, once, she was the baby, and I the 
old woman. Yes ; that was the greatest 
change in me — I began to feel so very old. 

That did not matter: Heaven had pre- 


served my mother, and me too, though I had 
taken my life in my hand to save or lose. 

It was saved. I was kept to fight on and 
labor on all these years, and at last, I sup- 
pose, to be laid in my coffin with the same 
face which, even to this day, those who love 
me are pleased to call beautiful. 

But my mother’s face was changed ; though 
she recovered, and when she really began to 
mend, more rapidly than any one expected, 
still the disease left its mark upon her soft 
cheeks, her pretty neck and throat, round 
which, when I was quite a big girl, my sleepy 
hand loved to creep in babyish fashion. The 
expression of her dear face could not alter, 
but her complexion, once fresh as a child’s, 
totally faded. When I left her — that day 
she stood at the door, and watched the car- 
riage drive away — she had still looked 
young ; when she rose up from her sick-bed, 
she was almost an elderly woman. 

Still, this also did not matter. People do 
not love their mothers as knights their ladye- 
loves, or husbands their wives, for the sake 
of their youth and beauty ; though I have 
known of chivalric devotion to a very plain 
woman, and tender love to a wife both fee- 
ble and old. When I got my mother once 
more down stairs, and had her in my arms 
safe and sound, warm and alive, I think no 
lover ever wept over his mistress more pas- 
sionate, more joyful tears. Her poor faded 
face counted for nothing. Only to think, as 
I say, that she was safe and alive ! — that I 
had fought for her with Death, and beaten 
him — that is, God had given me the victory. 
For I was so young still, so full of life : I 
could not accept death, as we afterward learn 
to do, as coming also from God’s hand. The 
first day that my mother came down stairs, I 
sang my jubilate all over the house, and ran 
about, half laughing, half crying like a child. 

Only for one day. Then began the weary 
time of convalescence, sometimes better, 
sometimes worse — the reaction of the house- 
hold from the excitement of a dangerous ill- 
ness, which is always trying, and apt to leave 
folks rather cross. Besides, there were all 
the purifications to begin at once, with us 
still in the house. Poor Mrs. Golding ! she 
was very good, more especially when we 
considered she had lost through us her 
summer lodgers ; for it was now June. Yet 
for them to come in was as impracticable as j 
for my mother and me to turn out. 

“We must make it up to her in some 


MY MOTHER AND t 


95 


way/’ said myinotlier,witli a sigli,begmuing 
already to trouble berself with domestic and 
financial anxieties, until she saw that I would 
not allow it. I threatened her, if she still 
persisted in considering me a child, incapa- 
ble of managing any thing, that I would take 
the law into my own hands, and treat her 
like a captive princess; bound in silken 
chains, but firmly bound. At which she 
laughed and said I was ^‘growing clever,” 
besides tyrannical. But I think when Mrs. 
Golding assured her I really had some sense, 
and was managing matters almost as well 
as she herself could, my mother was rather 
proud than otherwise. 

Other things she also, from the feebleness 
of illness, seemed to have let slip entirely. 
She scarcely made a single inquiry about my 
grandfather, or any of them in Bath. This 
was well, since it might have hurt her to 
find out — as I accidentally did — ^that none 
of them had sent to inquire, not even to the 
garden gate. But perhaps, on every account, 
this was best. And yet I could not choose 
but think it rather strange. 

Gradually we passed out of the mysteri- 
ous unnatural half life of the sick-room into 
the full clear daylight of common existence. 
Then we found out what two changed creat- 
ures we were in many respects, but still, 
over and always, my mother and I. 

We were sitting together in the parlor, 
that is, I was sitting, busy at work, and she 
lying idle, as was our way now. I had 
taken very much to my needle — the girl’s 
dislike, the woman’s consolation. The doc- 
tor had just been and said our invalid was 
much better — quite able to see any body, 
only people were afraid of infection still; 
and besides there was nobody to come. But 
he said half the village had inquired for us, 
and to one person in particular he had had 
to give, or send, a bulletin every day. 

Only after the doctor had gone there dart- 
ed into my mind the possibility as to who 
that person was. To let go of one’s friends 
is one thing, but to be forced to feel that 
they have let you go, in an unkind way, and 
that you can not think quite so well of them 
as you used to do, is another and a much 
harder trial. As I said my prayers that 
night, I added, earnestly, “ Thank God !” — 
For what. He knew. 

But neither that day nor the next did I 
let my mind wander one minute from my 
dai'ling mother, given back to me from the 


very jaws of the grave. Oh, what a girl 
can be to a mother — a grown-up girl who 
is gaining the sense and usefulness of wom- 
anhood! And oh, what a mother is to a 
daughter, who now learns fully to feel her 
value, and gives her all the devotion of a 
lover, and all the duty of a child! More 
especially if no duty is exacted. My mother 
and I never even mentioned the word. But 
I loved her — God knows how I loved her — 
even then and through it all. 

My needle-work done, I took to balancing 
our weekly accounts, which cost me as much 
trouble as if I had been Chancellor of the 
Exchequer, and when they were done, began 
to tell my mother of a good suggestion of 
Mrs. Golding’s — that we should go to some 
sea-side lodging she knew of for a week or 
two, while she got the rooms cleaned and 
repapered; then we could come back and 
remain here the whole summer. 

“She does not want to part with us; she 
has grown so fond of you, mother.” 

“ But she will want more rent, and how 
can we pay ?” 

“ I can pay !” said I, with pride. “ I could 
not tell you till now, darling, but the doctor 
wants me to teach his children as soon as 
ever we are out of quarantine. He says, 
politely, such a good nurse will make a good 
governess, which does not follow. But I’ll 
try. Do you consent ?” 

She sighed. She too might have had oth- 
er dreams ; but they had passed away like 
mine. She accepted the fact that I must be 
a governess, after all. 

We kissed one another, and then, to pre- 
vent her dwelling on the subject, I began 
the innocent caressing nonsense which one 
gets into the habit of during sickness, when 
the patient’s mind is too feeble, and the 
nurse’s too full, to take in aught beyond 
the small interests close at hand. We were 
silly enough, no doubt, but happy — when I 
heard a step come up the garden, a step I 
knew. 

My first thought — I can not well tell what 
it was ; my second, that we were still an in- 
fected household. 

“ Stop him !” cried I, starting up and run- 
ning to the door. “Somebody must stop 
him. Mrs. Golding, tell that gentleman he 
is not to come in.” 

“ Why not ?” And I saw him stand there, 
with his kind, smiling face. “ Why not. 
Cousin Elma ?” 


96 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


Because it is not safe — we are in quar- 
antine still, you know.’’ 

“ Of course I know — that and every thing 
else. But I have taken all precautions. 
Your doctor and I are the best of friends. 
He sent me here. Mrs. Picardy, may I come 
in ?” 

“ Certainly,” she answered, looking quite 
pleased; so without more ado he entered. 
Though he took no notice, I, perceived that 
he saw the change in her — saw it and was 
very sorry, both for her and me. Appropri- 
ating my chair, he sat down beside her and 
began talking to her, giving small attention 
to me, beyond a nod and smile. But that 
was enough ; it felt like windows opened 
and sunshine coming into a long-shut-up 
room. 

“ General Picardy sends all sorts of kind 
messages to you. He left Bath almost di- 
rectly after your daughter went. He said 
he could not hear the dullness of the house. 
But I have kept him almost daily informed 
of you both.” 

‘‘ Then we were not forsaken by you all,” 
said my mother, gently, by which I guessed 
she had thought more of the matter than I 
supposed. 

Cousin Conrad shook his head gayly. 
“ Elma, tell your mother she does not quite 
know us yet — not so well as you do.” 

She looked up quickly, this dear mother 
of mine, first at him and then at me ; hut 
there was nothing to see. In him, of course, 
nothing; in me — But I had learned to 
accept his kindness as he meant it, the 
frank familiar friendship which implied 
nothing more. I answered Cousin Conrad 
as I would have answered any other friend 
whom I warmly liked and respected, and in 
whom I entirely believed. 

Then I took my sewing again, and left 
him to his chat with my mother, which she 
evidently enjoyed. He had come to see her 
so often while I was in Bath that they were 
better friends than I knew. My only won- 
der was that all this long time she had nev- 
er praised him — scarcely spoken of him to 
me at all. 

He took tea with us, and we were very 
happy in his company ; so happy that I al- 
most forgot to he afraid for him. At last 
I thankfully heard him tell my mother that 
he had had small-pox very severely as a boy, 
and since then had gone in the way of it 
many times with perfect impunity. 


“ Not that I should ever run useless risks 
— one’s self is not the only person to think 
of ; and before I go home I mean to change 
my clothes and do a deal of fumigation. 
You need not have the slightest uneasi- 
ness about me, Mrs. Picardy. I may come 
again ?” 

“ We shall he very happy to see you.” 

There was a little stiffness in my mother’s 
manner, hut she looked at him as if she 
liked him. I knew her face so well. 

Not that I shall burden you with many 
visits, as I am still going to India, though 
not just yet. Would you like to hear how 
things are settled ?” 

Without any apologies, hut telling us as 
naturally as if we belonged to him, he ex- 
plained that the hill-station to which he 
had been ordered was so healthy that the 
doctor said he would he as well there as in 
England, perhaps better. Two or three 
years might re-establish his strength en- 
tirely. 

“And I should be thankful for that. 
Though when I fiirst came home I did not 
much care. At five - and - twenty even, I 
thought my life was done.” 

“Mine is not, even at seven-and-forty,” 
said my mother, smiling. 

“But then you have your child.” 

“ Ay, I have my child.” 

My mother looked at me — such a look ! 
As I knelt beside her sofa, laughing, yet 
within an inch of crying. Cousin Conrad 
leaned over us and touched my hand. I 
felt all the blood rush into my face, and my 
mother saw it. 

He staid but a minute or two longer ; I 
let him out at the gate, and listened to the 
clatter of his horse’s hoofs up the village, 
then came back into the parlor at once. 

My mother lay quite still, looking straight 
before her. In her eyes was a curious ex- 
pression — not exactly sad, but pensive, as if 
her mind had wandered far away, and a let- 
ter which Cousin Conrad had just given her, 
saying it was from the General, and he hoped 
would please her as it had pleased the send- 
er, lay untouched on her lap. 

“ Shall I open it ?” said I, glad to say and 
do something. 

It was a very kind letter, signed by him 
with his feeble, shaky signature, though the 
body of it was in another handwriting, one 
which we both recognized. And it inclosed 
a hundred-pound note, begging our accept- 


MY MOTHER AND 1. 


ance of the “ trifle,” to defray the expenses 
of her illness “ until I can make permanent 
provision for my daughter-in-law and her 
child.” 

“ Your child, you see, mother. He puts us 
both together, he does not want to take me 
from you now ; and if he did, ever so much, 
I would not go. I will never leave you 
again — never, darling mother !” 

She smiled, but not a word said she — not 
a single word. 

I had expected she would say something 
of our visitor and his visit, but she did not, 
until just as we were going to bed, when 
she asked me to give her my grandfather’s 
G 


97 

letter, as she would like to read it over 
again. 

“ It is very kind of him ; but I suppose 
Major Picardy, who seems almost like a son 
to him, is at the root of it all.” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“He too is very kind. Indeed, I never 
met any man who seemed to me so thorough- 
ly good, so entirely unselfish, reliable, and 
true. No one could know him without lov- 
ing him.” 

She looked at me, a keen, steady, half- 
smiling, half-pensive look. From that mo- 
ment I was quite certain that my mother 
had found out all. 



CHAPTER XIV. 


All my life I have been the recipient of 
countless love-stories, the confidante both of 
young men and maidens, and I always found 
the benefit of that sage proverb, “ Least said, 
soonest mended.’’ On my side certainly, be- 
cause many a silly fancy is fanned into a 
misplaced love by talking it over with a 
foolish sympathizer; on theirs, because I 
have generally found that those who felt the 
most said the least. Happiness is sometimes 
loquacious; but to pain — and there is so 
much pain always mixed up in love afiairs 
— the safest and best panacea is silence. 

My mother and I were silent to one an- 
other, perfectly silent, though we must have 
read one another’s hearts as clear as a book, 
day by day ; still, neither spoke. What was 
there to speak about ? He had never said 
a word to me that all the world might not 
hear, and I — I would not think of myself or 
of my future. Indeed, I seemed to have no 
future at all after the 18th of September, the 
day on which the ship was to sail from 
Southampton. 

Between now and then our life was full 
enough, even though outside it was as quiet 
and lonely as before I went to Bath, except 
for one friend who came to see us now and 
then, like any ordinary friend, to whom our 
interests were dear, as his to us. He came 
generally on a Sunday, being so occupied 
during the week, and he used to call us his 
“Sunday rest,” saying that when he was 
abroad he would try to console himself for 
the loss of it by writing regularly “ Domin- 
ical letters.” 

He was very cheerful about his departure, 
and very certain as to his return, which he 
meant to be, at the latest, within four years. 

“ Elma will then be one-and-twenty, and 


you not quite a septuagenarian, Mrs. Picar- 
dy, and the General will be only seventy- 
five. As I told him the other day, when he 
spoke of my being one day master at Broad- 
lands, it is likely to be a good many years 
yet before that time arrives.” 

But he would be master there some time, 
as of course he and we both knew. Occa- 
sionally we all took a dip into the far-away 
future, planning what he was to do with his 
wealth and influence — schemes aU for oth- 
ers, none for himself. Not a thought of lux- 
ury, or ease, or worldly position, only how he 
should best use all the good things that might 
fall to him so as to do the widest good. 

How proud I was of him, and am still I 

My mother, I could see, enjoyed his society 
very much. She told me once there was in 
him a charm of manner that she had never 
seen in any man, except one. “ Only,” she 
added, “ in nothing else does he at all resem- 
ble your father.” 

Though she said this with a sigh, it was 
not a sigh of pain. She was in no way un- 
happy, I think — quite the contrary — only a 
little meditative and grave, but that chiefly 
when we were alone. When Cousin Conrad 
came she received him warmly, and exerted 
herself to make all things as pleasant to him 
as possible ; the more so because sometimes 
I was hardly able to speak a word. 

What long still Sunday afternoons we used 
to spend, all three together, in our little par- 
lor! What twilight walks we had across 
the Tyning and over the fields ! Cousin 
Conrad always gave my mother his arm, and 
I followed after, watching the two, and no- 
ticing his exceeding tenderness over her; 
but I was not jealous of him — ^not at all. 

At first I could see she was a little nervous 


99 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


in his company, inclined to be irritable, and 
quick to mark any little peculiarities be 
bad — and be bad a few ; but she never crit- 
icised him, only watched him ; and gradual- 
ly I could perceive that she grew satisfied, 
and neither criticised nor watched him any 
more. 

I bad leisure to observe and think over 
'these two, because I dared not think for a 
moment of myself — bow it would be with 
me when be ceased to come, when we missed 
him out of our life, and the seas rolled be- 
tween us, and bis familiar presence was only 
a remembrance and a dream. Many a time 
when I could not sleep of nights — when all 
these things came upon me in such a tide 
that I could have wrung my bands and 
screamed, or got up and paced the room in 
the darkness, like a wild creature in its cage, 
only for fear of disturbing my mother — she 
would put out her band and feel for me. 

Child, are you wide awake still V’ and take 
me silently into her arms. 

Her tenderness over me in those last weeks 
— those last days — I can not describe, but 
have never ceased to remember. She kept 
me constantly employed : in fact, I was nerv- 
ously eager after work, though I often left 
it half finished. But, whatever I did or left 
undone, she never blamed me. She treated 
me a little like a sick child, but without 
telling me I was ill. For I was ill — sick 
unto death at times with misery, with bit- 
ter, bitter humiliation — and then by fits un- 
utterably happy; but of the happiness or 
the misery we neither of us spoke at all. 

Only once I remember her telling me, as 
if by accident, the history of a friend of 
Iiers, a girl no older than myself, who, when 
one day coming into a room, saw a face 
which she had never seen before, yet from 
that moment she loved it — ^loved it in one 
way or other all her life. 

‘‘And he deserved her love ; he was a no- 
ble and good man,” said my mother. 

“ Did she marry him ?” 

“No.” 

We were silent a little, and then my moth- 
er continued, sewing busily as she spoke : 
“ The'W'orld might say it was a rather sad 
story, but I do not. I never blamed her; I 
scarcely even pitied her. Love comes to us, 
as all other things come, by the will of God ; 
but whether it does good or harm depends, 
also like other things apparently, upon our 
own will. There are such things as broken 


hearts and blighted lives, but these are gen- 
erally feeble hearts and selfish lives. The 
really noble, of men or women, are those who 
have strength to love, and strength also to 
endure.” 

I said nothing, but I never forgot those 
healing words; and often, when most in- 
clined to despise myself, it was balm to my 
heart to know that, reading it, as I was quite 
sure she did, my mother did not despise me ; 
and so I made up my mind, as she had said, 
to “ endure.” 

What she must have endured for me and 
through me — often, alas ! from me, for I was 
very irritable at times — no tongue can tell. 
Mothers only, I think, can understand how 
vicarious suffering is sometimes the sharpest 
of all. During those days I used to pity 
myself; now, looking back upon them, I 
pity my mother. Yet I have no recollection 
of her ever changing from that sweet moth- 
erly calmness which was the only thing that 
soothed my pain. 

Her pain, the anguish of seeing herself no 
longer able to make the entire happiness of 
her child, of watching the power slip out 
of her hands, and for a while perhaps feel- 
ing, with unutterable bitterness, a vague 
dread that the love is slipping away too — 
of this I never once thought then ; I did aft- 
erward. 

Well, somehow or other, the time went by 
and brought us to the last week, the last 
day, which Cousin Conrad asked if he might 
spend with us, both because “ we were the 
dearest friends he had,” and because he had 
a somewhat important message to bring 
from my grandfather, with whom he had 
heen staying at Broadlands. 

“ And a charming place it is,” he wrote, 
“ and a very well managed estate too, though 
it is in Ireland.” It was always a pet joke 
of his against my mother that she disliked 
every thing Irish, and distrusted him be- 
cause he was just a little bit of an Irishman. 
She used to laugh, saying it was quite true 
he had all the Irish virtues, the warm, gen- 
erous heart, the gay spirits, the quick sym- 
pathy, the sweet courtesy which would al- 
ways rather say a kind fhing than an un- 
kind one. As for his Irish faults, she de- 
clined to pass judgment upon them. Time 
would show. “Ah, yes,” he would some- 
times answer, gravely, “if Heaven grants 
me time.” 

But these passing sadnesses of his I never 


/ 


100 MY MOTHER AND I. 


noticed much ; tlie mere sight of him was 
enough to make any one glad ; and when he 
came, even though it was his last time of 
coming, and I knew it, the joy of seeing him 
after a week’s absence was as great as if he 
had been absent a year, and we had -all 
three forgotten that he was ever to leave us 
again. ’ 

He and my mother fell at once to talk- 
ing, discussing the proposition of which my 
ffrandfather had made him the hearer. This 

o 

was that she and I should come at once to 
live at Broadlands, not, as I at first feared, 
in the characters of Miss Picardy and Miss 
Picardy’s mother, hut that she should take 
her position as his son’s widow and the mis- 
tress of his house so long as the General lived. 

“ That may he many years or few,” said 
Cousin Conrad, “ and after his death he prom- 
ises nothing ; but,” with a smile, “ I think 
you need not he afraid.” 

And then he went on to explain that it 
was my grandfather’s wish to spend half the 
year at Broadlands and the other half in 
Dublin or London, according as was conven- 
ient, especially with reference to me and the 
completion of my education, so as to fit me 
for whatever position in society I might he 
called upon to fill. 

“ Not that she is ill educated, or unaccom- 
plished. We know what she is, do we not, 
Mrs. Picardy ? Still her grandfather wish- 
es her to he quite perfect, doubtless with 
the idea that she shall one day he — ” He 
stopped. I have no right to say any more, 
for I know nothing of the General’s inten- 
tions. All I entreat is — accept his kindness. 
It will prove a blessing to himself and to you 
also. Elma rich will be a much more useful 
woman than Elma poor. This, whether she 
marries or not. If she should marry, and I 
liope she will one day — ” 

Here my mother looked up sharply. There 
was in her face a slight shade of annoyance, 
even displeasure ; but it met his, so sad, so 
calm, so resolute, and passed away. She said 
nothing, only sighed. 

“ Forgive my referring to this subject, 
Mrs. Picardy ; but it is one upon which the 
General feels very strongly ; indeed, he bade 
me speak of it, both to relieve your mind and 
your daughter’s. There was once a gentle- 
man, a Sir Thomas Appleton — Elma may 
have told you about him.” 

No. Elma had not. I felt I was expect- 
ed to speak; so I said, with a strange com- 


posure, and yet not strange, for it seemed as 
if I were past feeling any thing now, “ that 
I had not thought it worth while to trouble 
my mother with my trouble about Sir Thom- 
as Appleton.” 

“ Trouble is an odd word for a young lady 
to use when a young man falls in love with 
her,” said Cousin Conrad, smiling ; “ but she 
really was very miserable. She looked the 
picture of despair for days. Never mind ! as 
Mercutio says, ‘Men have died and worms 
have eaten them, but not for love.’ Sir 
Thomas is not dead yet — not likely to die. 
And your grandfather bade me assure you, 
Elma, that if half a dozen Sir Thomases 
should appear, he will not urge you to mar- 
ry one of them unless you choose.” 

“That is right,” said my mother, “and 
Elma was quite right too. If she does not 
love a man, she must never marry him, how- 
ever her friends might wish it. She will 
not be unhappy even if she never marries at 
all. My dear child !” 

“Yes, you say truly,” answered Cousin 
Conrad, after a long pause, “ and truly, also, 
you call her a ‘ child.’ Therefore, as I told 
the General, before she marries, or is even 
engaged, she ought to have plenty of oppor- 
tunity of seeing all kinds of men — good men 
— and of choosing deliberately, when she 
does choose, so that she may never regret it 
afterward. Sometimes in their twenties 
girls feel differently from what they do in 
their teens, and if after being bound they 
wake up and wish themselves free again — 
God forbid such a misfortune should happen 
to her.” 

“ It never will, I think,” said my mother. 

“ It never must,” said Cousin Conrad, de- 
cisively. “We will guard against the re- 
motest chance of such a thing. She shall 
be left quite free ; her mother will be con- 
stantly beside her ; she will have every op- 
portunity of choice; and when she does 
choose, among the many who are sure to 
love her, she will do it with her eyes open. 
You understand me, do you not — you at 
least ?” added he, very earnestly. 

“I think I do.” 

“ And you forgive me ? Remember, I am 
going away.” 

“ I do remember. I am not likely ever to 
forget,” replied my mother, visibly affected, 
and offering him her hand. He clasped it 
warmly, and turned away, not saying another 
word. 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


101 


For me, I sat apart, thinking not much of 
what either of them said or did, though 
afterward I recalled it all : thinking, in- 
deed, very little about any thing beyond the 
one fact — that he was going away, that after 
this day I should see him no more for days 
and weeks and months and years. 

I sat apart, taking no share in the conver- 
sation, only watching him by stealth — him 
to whom I was nothing at all, and he noth- 
ing to me, except just my cousin Conrad. 
Yet then, ay, and at any time in my life, I 
could have died for him ! said not a word, 
but just quietly died! I sat, trying to lay 
up in my heart every trick of his manner, 
every line of his face, as a sort of memorial 
store-house to live upon during the dark fam- 
ine days that were coming. 

‘‘ Well, then, that business is settled,” said 
he, with a sigh of relief. “ You will go to 
Broadlands as soon as you can — perhaps 
even next week and he proceeded to give 
minute directions for our journey, saying it 
would be a comfort to him to know that all 
was arranged as easily as possible, and he 
would think of us safe in my grandfather’s 
beautiful home, while he was tossing on the 
Hay of Biscay. He could not hear of us for 
many months. There Was no overland route 
to India then. 

‘‘ But I can wait. I have learned to wait, 
and yet it sometimes seems a little hard, at 
thirty-six years old. But it is right, it is 
right,” he added, half to himself. Years after 
how thankful I was to remember his words ! 

Then, rising, he suggested that we should 
sit talking no longer; but all three go out 
together into the pleasant afternoon sun- 
shine and enjoy ourselves.” 

“Enjoy” seemed a strange word to use, 
and yet it was a true one. When friends 
are all at peace together, with entire trust 
and content in one another, there is no bit- 
terness even in the midst of parting pain. 
And such was his sweet nature, and the in- 
fluence it had upon those about him, that 
this fact was especially remarkable. I have 
now not a single recollection of that day 
which is not pleasant as well as dear. 

We spent part of it at a place where my 
mother and I had often talked of going, the 
abbey which we had started to see that aft- 
ernoon when the bleak wind made me re- 
solve to buy her a Paisley shawl. As we 
again crossed the Tyning, I overheard her 
telling Cousin Conrad the whole story. 


“Just like her — just like Elma !” said he, 
turning round to look at me, and then told 
liow, on his side, he remembered the Gener- 
al’s calling him into his room to write a let- 
ter concerning the possible granddaughter 
which he thought he had found. 

“ It is strange upon what small chances 
great things seem to hang. We go on and 
on, year after year, and nothing happens, 
and we think nothing ever will happen ; 
and then suddenly turning a corner, we 
come upon our destiny. Is it not so, Mrs. 
Picardy ?” 

I do not remember what my mother an- 
swered, or if she answered at all. She was 
exceedingly kind, even tender to him ; but 
she was also exceedingly grave. 

Thus we wandered on till we reached the 
old abbey — a mere ruin, and little cared for 
by the owners of the house in whose grounds 
it stood. The refectory was used as a wood- 
shed, the chapel as a stable, and above it, 
ascended by a broken stair, were two large 
rooms, still in good preservation, said to 
have been the monks’ library and their dove- 
cot. 

“ You can still see the holes in the stone 
walls, I am told, where the pigeons built 
their nests,” said my mother. “ Go up and 
look at them, if you like, you two ; I will 
rest here.” 

She sat down on a heap of hay, and we 
went on without her. Only once she called 
after us that the stair was dangerous, and 
he must take care of “ the child.” 

“ Ah, yes !” he said, with such a smile ! It 
made me quite cheerful, and we began ex- 
amining every thing and discussing every 
thing quite after the old way. Then we 
rested a while, and stood looking out through 
the narrow slits of windows on to the pleas- 
ant country beyond. 

“ What a comfortable life those old monks 
must have made for themselves I And how 
curious it must have been, as they sat poring 
over their manuscript-writing or illumina- 
ting in this very room, to hear close by the 
innocent little pigeons cooing in their nests ! 
I wonder if they ever thought that the poor 
little birds were, in some things, happier far 
than they.” 

“How?” said I, and then instinctively 
guessed, and wished I had not said it. 

“ Very jolly old fellows, though, they must 
have been, with a great idea of making them- 
selves comfortable. See, Elma, that must be 


102 


MY MOTHER AND L 



“ OOTT81N OONBAD PUT HIS HAND A MOMENT LIGHTLY ON MY 6HOHLDEK.” 


the remains of their orchard — these gnarled 
apple-trees, so very old, yet trying to hear a 
few apples still; and there are their fish- 
ponds — undoubtedly you always find fish- 
ponds near monasteries ; and look, what a 
splendid avenue of walnut-trees ! No doubt 
they had all the good things of this life ; 
except one, the best thing of all — home ; a 
married home.” 

It was only a word — but oh, the tone in 
which he said it ! he who, he once told me, 
had never had a home in all his life. Did 
he regret it? Was he, as I always fancied 
when he looked sad — was he thinking of 
Agnes ? Only Agnes ? 

I was not clever, and I was very young ; 


but I believe, even then, if any one had want- 
ed it, I could have learned how to make a 
home, a real home, as only a loving woman 
can. Not a wealthy home, maybe, and one 
that might have had its fair proportion of 
cares and anxieties ; but I would have strug- 
gled through them all. I would not . have 
been afraid of any thing. I would have 
fought with and conquered, please God, all 
remediable evils ; and those I could not con- 
quer I would have sat down and endured 
without complaining. No one , need have 
been afraid that I had not strength enough 
to bear my own bufden, perhaps the burden 
of two. Nay, it would have made me hap- 
pier. I never wished to have an easy life ; 




MY MOTHER AND I. 


103 


only a life with love in it — love and trust. 
Oh, how happy I could have been, however 
difficult my lot, if only I had had some one 
always beside me, some one whom I could 
at once look up to and take care of, cherish 
and adore ! How we could have spent our 
lives together, have passed through poverty 
if need Jbe, and risen joyfully to prosperity, 
still together ! have shared our prime and our 
decline', always together ! Instead of this — 

No ! Silence, my heart ! What am I that 
I should fight against God ? It was His will. 
With Him there are no such words as “might 
have been.” 

One thing I remember vividly — that as we 
stood there, looking out. Cousin Conrad put 
his hand a moment lightly on my shoulder. 

“ Keep as .you are a minute. Sometimes 
as you stand thus, with your profile turned 
away, you look so very like her — so like Ag- 
nes — that I could fancy it was she herself 
come back again, young as ever, while I have 
grown quite old. Yes, compared with you, 
Elma, I am quite old.” 

I said nothing. K I had said any thing — 
if I could have told him that those we love 
to us never seem old, that, even had it been 
as he said, he with his gray hair was more 
to me, and would be down to the most help- 
less old age, than all the young men in the 
world ! But how could I have said it? And 
if I had, it would have made no difference. 
Years afterward I recalled his look — firm and 
sweet, never wavering in a purpose which 
he thought right. No ; nothing would have 
made any difference. 

We staid a few minutes longer, and then 
came back, he helping me tenderly down the 
broken stairs, to my mother’s side. She gave 
a start, and a sudden, eager, anxious look at 
us both ; but when Cousin Conrad said, in 
his usual voice, that it was time for us to go 
home, she looked down again and — sighed. 

We went home, rather silently now, and 
took a hasty tea, for he had to be back in 
Bath by a certain hour, and, besideSj the 
mists were gathering, and my mother urged 
him to avoid the risk of a cold night ride. 

“We must say good-by at last, and per- 
haps it is best after all to say it quickly,” I 
heard her tell him, in an under-tone. Her 
voice trembled, the tears stood in her eyes. 
For me, I never stirred or wept. I was as 
still as a stone. 

“You are right,” answered he, rising. 
“ Good-by, and God bless you. That is all 


one needs to say.” Taking her hand, he 
kissed it. Then glj^ncing at me, he asked 
her — my mother only — “ May I ?” 

She bent her head in assent. Crossing 
the room, he came and kissed me, once on 
my forehead, and once — oh, thank God ! just 
that once ! — on my mouth. Where I keep 
it — that kiss of his — till I can give it back 
to him in Paradise. 

For in this world I never saw my cousin 
Conrad more. 

* # * # * # 

We had a very happy three years — my 
mother and I — as happy as we had ever 
known. For after Cousin Conrad’s depart- 
ure we seemed to close up together — she and I 
— in one another’s loving arms ; understand- 
ing one another thoroughly, though still, as 
ever, we did not speak one word about him 
that all the world- might not have heard. 

Outwardly, our life was wholly free from 
care. We had as much of each other’s so- 
ciety, or nearly as much, as we had ever had, 
with the cares of poverty entirely removed. 
My grandfather proved as good as his word, 
and all that Cousin Conrad had said of him 
he justified to the full. He received my 
mother with cordial welcome, and treated 
her from first to last with unfailing respect 
and consideration. She had every luxury 
that I could desire for her, and she needed 
luxuries, for after her illness she was never 
her strong, active self again. But she was 
her dear 'self always — the sweetest, bright- 
est little mother in all the world. 

To the world itself, however, we were two 
very grand people — Mrs. and Miss Picardy 
of Broadlands. At which we often laughed 
between ourselves, knowing that we were in 
reality exactly the same as in our shut-up 
poverty days — just “ my mother and I.” 

Cousin Conrad’s letters were our great en- 
joyment. He never missed a single mail. 
Generally he wrote to her, with a little note 
inside for me, inquiring about my studies 
and amusements, and telling me of his own, 
though of himself personally he said very 
little. Whether he were well or ill, happy 
or miserable, we could guess only by indirect 
evidence. But one thing was clear enough 
— his intense longing to be at home. 

“ Not a day shall I wait,” he said in a let- 
ter to my grandfather — “not a single day 
after the term of absence I have prescribed 
to myself is ended.” And my grandfather 
coughed, saying, mysteriously, “ that Conrad 


104 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


always had his crotchets; he hoped this 
would he the last of them; it was not so 
very long to look forward.” 

Did I look forward ! Had I any dreams 
of a possible future? I can -not tell. My 
life was so full and busy — my mother seem- 
ed obstinately determined to keep it busy — 
that I had little time for dreams. 

She took me out into society, and I think 
both she and my grandfather enjoyed socie- 
ty's receiving me well. I believe I made 
what is called a “ sensation” in both Dublin 
and London. I was even presented at 
court, and the young Queen said a kind 
word or two about me, in her Majesty’s own 
pleasant way. Well, well, all that is gone 
by now; but at the time I enjoyed it. It 
was good to be worth something — even to 
look at — and I liked to be liked very much, 
until some few did rather more than like me, 
and then I was sometimes very unhappy. 
But my grandfather kept his promise; he 
never urged upon me any offer of marriage. 
And my mother too — my tender mother — 
asked me not a single question as to the why 
and the wherefore, though, one after anoth- 
er, I persistently refused them all. 

‘‘When she is one-and-twenty, my dear, 
we may hope she will decide. By then she 
will have time to know her own mind. 
Conrad said so, and Conrad is always right.” 

Thus said my grandfather to my mother, 
and they both smiled at one another : they 
were the best of friends now, and so they 
remained to the last. 

The last came sooner than any of us had 
thought — for Cousin Conrad’s prophecies 
were not realized. When we had had only 
three years in which to make him happy — 
and I know we did make him happy — ^my 
dear grandfather died ; suddenly, painlessly, 
without even having had time to bid us 
good-by. It was a great shock, and we 
mourned for him as if we had loved him all 
our lives. Ay, even though, to the great 
surprise of our affectionate friends — a large 
circle now — he left us only a small annuity 
— the rest of his fortune going, as the will 
proved he had always meant it to go, to 
Cousin Conrad. I was so glad ! 

Cousin Conrad was now obliged to come 
home. We had only one line from him, when 
he got the sad news, begging my mother to 
remain mistress at Broadlands until he ar- 
rived there, and adding that, if it did not 
trouble us very much, he should be grateful 


could we manage to meet him at Southamp- 
ton, he being “ rather an invalid.” 

So we went. I need not say any thing 
about the journey. When it ended, my 
mother, just at the last minute, proposed 
that I should remain in the carriage, at the 
dock gates, while she went forward to the 
ship’s side, where we could dimly perceive 
a crowd disembarking. 

They disembarked. I saw them land in 
happy groups, with equally happy friends 
to greet them, laughing and crying and kiss- 
ing one another. They all came home, safe 
and sound, all but one— my one. Deep in 
the Red Sea, where the busy ships sail over 
him, and the warm waves rock him in his 
sleep, they had left him — as much as could 
die of him — my Cousin Conrad. 

* 4 : ' * * * * 

He had died of the fatal family disease 
which he knew he was doomed to, though 
the warm climate of the East and the pure 
air of the hills kept it dormant for a long 
time. But some accidental exposure brought 
on inflammation of his lungs ; after which he 
began to sink rapidly. The doctors told him 
he would never reach England alive ; but he 
was determined to try. I heard it was won- 
derful how long the brave spirit upbore the 
feeble body. He did not suffer much, but 
just lay every day on deck ; alone, quite 
alone, as far as near friends went — yet 
watched and tended by all the passengers, 
as if he had belonged to them for years. In 
the midst of them all, these kind strange 
faces, he one day suddenly, when no one ex- 
pected it, “ fell on sleep.” For he looked as 
if asleep — they said — with the sun shining 
on his face, and his hands folded, as quiet as 
a child. 

All that was his became mine. He left it 
me — and it was a large fortune — ^in a brief 
will, made hastily the very day after he had 
received the tidings of my grandfather’s 
death. He gave me every thing absolutely, 
both “ because it was my right,” and “ be- 
cause he had always loved me.” 

He had always loved me. Then, why 
grieve ? 

In course of years I think I have almost 
ceased to grieve. If, long ago, merely be- 
cause I loved him, I had felt as if already 
married, how much more so now, when noth- 
ing could ever happen to change this feeling, 
or make my love for him a sin ? 

I do not say there was not an intermedi- 


MY MOTHER AND I. 


ate and terrible time, a time of utter blank- 
ness and darkness; when I “ walked through 
the valley of the shadow of death alone, 
quite alone. But by-and-by I came out of 
it into the safe twilight — we came out of it, 
I should say, for she had been close beside 
me all the while, my dearest mother ! 

She helped me to carry out my life, as like 
his as I could make it, in the way I knew he 
would most approve. And, so doing, it has 
not been by any means an unhappy life. I 
have had his wealth to accomplish all his 
schemes of benevolence ; I have sought out 
his friends and made them mine, and been 
as true to them as he would have been. In 
short, I have tried to do aU that he -was 


105 

obliged to leave undone, and to make my- 
self contented in the doing of it. 

“ Contented,” I think, was the word peo- 
ple most often used concerning us during 
the many peaceful years we spent together, 
my mother and I. Now it is only I. But I 
am, I think, a contented old woman yet. 
My own are still my own — perhaps the more 
so as I approach the time of reunion. For 
even here, to those who live in it and under- 
stand what it means, there is, both for us 
and for our dead, both in this life and in 
the life to come, the same ‘‘kingdom of 
heaven.” 

Of course I have always remained Elma 
Picardy. 




;v :t f"> 



r’i ^ 


t . ’ n , \ 


'%•* ,0* ‘ » mt '• 4*-^ 



r 



’(I 





k , » . • ' , 

■ '■ . 1 : »t£f /i,'.-'. 

■■ f / • 

L ' ; i J 1 .' .'f - ^ y iU > > v"t , 


ll jft •■ • -. ’ » •' , 

Ti^: ^ --v ?. •, i. - 

* - w ^ ,V« . . ^ , 

.i\:f • ;''V-, 


9^1 * 


Rl.^- ' : :• .fr '* V,H ' "-H f^'r .i4h I't O '~. .'i .• '■• ‘ (\ T"* ' K-^* '■* ' '.• *- 

. '!v V . ‘ ■•^ "' y ^•" • ' ^ 

,' ' ll'*^ ’ « ..«»'♦ •• »•. ** Y' 7 ’. A. ^*1 * s J f- • t ^ * 

*k r.' .‘^'M'N iV.t? ^ -iii* ?■ !.':•. * 4 *^ i./, .' -. 4 ' V>i '.un « ^ »-.■. ■' 


yy.',r Ul 

\:yu.y j •'[> / . I 


' * 1 , ^' '’. v> ' ' *'• ./•’.'» » • ' k'” f 

, f <t - 


74 ^ 


♦* 




. 4 . 


J ». 'A _ 

«r* 

. V ^ . .i , V 


. !•* f t ■ 

I » • < 4- ■ t 




»’■ 


, r.' *iM ;-^r. t.; * 

4 ^ 4. j K*.»j k? — M M* * X-.\<»f W-# ^ 

■* 



1 • t • 

■: ^.' 4 ,, *v t |=* 


I 4 ^ / 


• * 1 ' i' • 

■_ 3» ^ ,y 

-Jiy 1 i W '' 


to 


u- 




*. . >v%' 5 ,: * ’ f'.iO 5 .. 

i-'i 4 - ‘'•' “VW .*^; ■ ■ 


♦ • - M T 4 ’ 

..A^ ' ..' ,j • , I 


% ' 




4 M 


* y 




z' 




« • J ‘ < 


* Aft 


.Vr'' 


■r. ‘M* 



i« u 




J '1 


0. - 



«>• 

# 


:'■_ . .... . 




..>V- 


s. '•s / 

i . 




t 


'•V 


/ X 


♦ 






X '♦ 
♦ 






fM 


-> 




•.'* V I** 

• '■ Ik. ^■ .M ■» 


■Zf 

v:j 


■f» z 


> • 


* <•- '* ’fc- 


* 

• 

4*. 


>» •r 

# . A I 



. •* 




. f 


I 



f'Vw'; i*: M. » 

S . 

% ^ 

' V ■" 

■i ‘ .:r * ^ '*■ 

, 

, 

*>■ ■:;■ f:, >■ 

• 

... ^ 

:■•»', V ^'‘‘•* 

• ' 

., •• I*--' 

4 


' » ‘-^ 

r -..i H _ 

. # 

• . 

1 : -'vy/: 

« 

t 

) 

» -.A 

»•. 



'► v*r •••■■ 

k 


'. T ' •» 

1 

Sr 

1 ; •. 

# . ' . ^ 

#» 


.• 


< 


14 

t 


rm • ^ 


Jj- 


• . <> 


Pf^ 


. . 1 A 

.. . ■ . 4 ^ ^ 

r„'i- A' . ► . I , rt* • - - ' 


. ►il 


*4 


'•.-C' ■ .>f ; 




."*' ' C.‘ '% 






. Jft ■ 

/ '»’."i '*■ 


j- it'-'-.v 








7 , 

■. , "f,- ^tr" r'M 

■f ‘-..Mi 



-V . V - ; .■ ■ t.i. ■’ . 


{' % 'f 4» ^4 . *. 

•* 


• ^ fc* -MK g 

Ti 


*' • » t 

4' •;.' 


: pi : • 


. 



‘< >^..v 


;. • .. • • • • ••■ ,' ' ^.-vr v:^ 4 v > • t’ ' ^ -' 

. . • >•• I ’j ,;* • • w* V . ^ . ■ • ' • V f ^ , 

'•• ■ '-'tr ■■"^’'- ‘ ‘ y-- y .-•■ f TMr 

. ‘VV*; ^ ’ y7.yr • • .‘>- • 

■■v-.v*;:. . ^ ’'-V'-ds-v 

* ,M ■• •■ ' * 'i '• • *’’ '»'■' '*•' ' • '.‘^ '*■• ■ *“ \ ' -i' •'■ 


•\x *• 


«v 1 , 






^ t* ’ t 

' V 


f.fV/.-'ri; ■•V'.id’; 






If 



) 



JUNE BOOK-LIST. 

Harper & Brothers will send any of the following hooks hy mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 

United States, on receipt of the price. 

5^°* Harper’s Catalogue a7td Harper’s Trade-List will be sent by mail on receipt of Six Cents. 


Motley’s Life and Death of John of Barneveld. 

Life and Death of John of Barneveld, Advocate of Holland. With a View of the Primary 
Causes and Movements of “ The Thirty Years’ War.” By John Lothrop Motley, D.C.L,, 
Author of “The Rise of the Dutch Republic,” “History of the United Netherlands,” &c. 
With Illustrations. In Two Volumes. 8vo, Cloth, $'j oo. (Uniform with Motley’s “Dutch 
Republic” and “United Netherlands.”) 


“ Tbe greatest men are not always those whom the 
world considers such. To the world, which judges 
only by what it sees, the greatest are the most success- 
ful. History is a stage where he who is most applaud- 
ed is the best actor. That many of the players, gen- 
erally the royal ones, are puppets, the spectators do 
not perceive. The wires by which they are moved are 
in unseen hands ; the parts which they perform are 
prepared by unknown brains. Kiugs flatter them- 
selves that it is they who govern their subjects, and 
famous captains that it is they who win battles ; but 
they are mistaken. It is the favorite whom the king 


takes to his arms, the priest to whom he confesses his 
secrets, the statesman who forwards, as he fancies, his 
royal intentions. These are the real rulers of mankind, 
and their influence is still unshaken. It was para- 
mount in the Europe of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, the Europe of Philip the Second, Henry the 
Fourth, Elizabeth and James, and— John of Barne- 
veld. Spain had its Duke of Lerma, France its Sully, 
England its Cecil and Walsingham, and the Nether- 
lands their John of Barneveld. If he was not the 
greatest man of his time, no man was greater, though 
one was more fortunate because more unscrupulous.” 


Harper’s Hand-Book for Travellers in Europe and the East. 

Being a Guide through Great Britain and Ireland, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, 
Italy, Egypt, Syria, Turkey, Greece, Switzerland, Tyrol, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Russia, 
and Spain. With over One Hundred Maps and Plans of Cities. By W. Pembroke Fet- 
RiDGE, Author of “ Harper’s Phrase-Book ” and “ Rise and Fall of the Paris Commune.” In 
Three Volumes, i2mo. Full Leather, Pocket-Book Form, oo per vol. ; or the Three Vol- 
umes in one, similar Binding, $j oo. 


Nordhoff’s Northern California, Oregon, and the Sandwich Islands. 

Northern California, Oregon, and the Sandwich Islands. By Charles Nordhoff, Author 
of “ California : for Health. Pleasure, and Residence,” &c., &c. Profusely Illustrated. 


8vo, Cloth, $2 50 ; Paper, $2 00. 

“ Mr. NordhoflF has here completed the account 
of our Pacific Coast, begun in his previous volume, 
California : for Health, Pleasure, and Residence. 
The new book has the same features which made 
its predecessor so successful— lively descriptions of 
natural scenery, full accounts of the resources of 
the region visited, and careful details for the use and 
guidance of travelers and settlers. 

Mr. Nordhoff has aimed to prepare, in these two 
volumes, a guide-book which should give something 
more than a mere list of names. He tells, with the 
most careful detail, what the traveler ought to see, 


how to see it, and the time as well as the money he 
will need to spend in his sight-seeing. For the more 
practical settler or emigrant, this volume has a great 
variety of useful information as to the climate, produc- 
tions, health, and state of society of the regions de- 
scribed. 

Mr. NordhofTs first volume obtained an immediate 
and extraordinary success ; and the present, which is 
a companion to it— or, rather, its sequel— completes 
the tour of the Pacific coast, including the Sandwich 
Islands, has the same merits, and, like the first, is 
very fully and finely illustrated.” 


2 


Harper Brothers^ List of New Books. 


Schweinfurth’s Heart of Africa. 

The Heart of Africa; or, Three Years’ Travels and Adventures in the Unexplored Regions 
of the Centre of Africa. From 1868 to 1871. By Dr. Georg Schweinfurth. Trans- 
lated by Ellen E. Frewer. With an Introduction by Winwood Reade. Illustrated by 


about 130 Woodcuts from Drawings made 
8vo, Cloth, ^8 00. 

The three great features of Schweinfurth’s book are, 
first, his great contributions to the hydrography of 
Central Africa ; next, his rediscovery of the Pygmies 
— always thought fabulous when mentioned in the 
pages of Herodotus and the old poets ; and thirdly, 
the dreadful but useful light which he thi’ows on the 
slave-hunting system and the work begun for the 
Egyptian government by Sir Samuel Baker. In re- 
gard to the question of the Nile, it may be briefly 
stated that Schweinfurth crossed the western water- 
shed of that river, and having arrived where the 
Lualaba must come — if it come northward at all, 
and not into the Nyanza — he found the Welle, the 
Keebaly, the Gadda, and all the streams of the land 
flowing westward, and probably to the Shary. This 
does not “ settle the Lualaba,” but it proves the exist- 
ence of a separate river system where Livingstone 
and Stanley thought there might be found the con- 
tinuous channel of the Bahr-el-Ghazal. As to the 
Pygmies, the German discovered them in a little peo- 
ple, averaging four feet seven inches in height, living 
south of King Munza’s territory. They are called the 
Akka. Besides seeing a great company of the dimin- 
utive savages, the traveler actually obtained one, call- 
ed Tikkitikki, and brought him in good health as 
far as Egypt, where he sickened and died from over- 
sumptuous food. The Akka are a separate nation 
— great hunters and fighters, like the Bushmen of 
South Africa, whom they greatly resemble; and 
there is little doubt that they represent the aborig- 
inal human race of the continent, while they seem in 
feature and habit to carry humanity some degrees 
closer to the “ missing link.” The Monbuttos and the 
Niam-niams, among whom the doctor lived for a long 
time, are confirmed cannibals ; and one of the most 
curious points of the description is to show that this 
unpleasant foible is not incompatible with marked 
advance in social arts and manners. For instance, 
these man-eaters, the Niam-niams, are affectionate 
husbands and wives, and will surrender the most 
cherished possession to buy back one of their house- 
hold, if captured by the slave-hunters or by a hostile 
tribe. The Pygmies, therefore, exist, as Herodotus 
said, though they are rather too large for the cranes to 
engage. Lastly, the dreadful pictures of war, rapine, 
famine, and speechless misery, the horrible conse- 
quences of the slave-trade, must awaken the con- 
science of Europe, which can not rest until measures 
are taken to restrain these wicked men-hunters. Al- 
together, the journey which we have cited is a most 
memorable contribution to the work of African dis- 
covery, and proves more than ever what a rich and 
splendid land it is which awaits the life and light of 
knowledge around those magnificent sweet-water seas 
of the “Heart of Africa.”— Londo?i Telegraph. 

All persons who are really interested in Africa— 
and in the present day their name is legion— should 
contrive to devote themselves to an attentive perusal 
of “The Heart of Africa .” — Literary World, London. 


by the Author, and with Two Maps. 2 vols., 

One of the remarkable features of this interesting 
book is the immense patience and pluck displayed by 
its author. * * * But in the book itself we find indirect 
evidence of a multifarious industry and energy such as 
few travelers have before exhibited. * * * It may be 
imagined from the multifarious interests of Dr. 
Schweinfurth himself how much interesting matter he 
has collected, and to how many different tastes his 
book will appeal . — Pall Mall Gazette., London. 

Dr. Schweinfurth’s work is a most valuable con- 
tribution to our knowledge of Inner Africa. We have 
here the matured results of an accomplished man of 
science, who combines all the qualities of a good trav- 
eler with the power of conveying to others the rich 
stores of information he has collected and classified in 
a very agreeable fonn . — Ocean Highways, London. 

Dr. Schweinfurth has unquestionably taken rank 
as a leading African explorer, and the present work 
more than justifies the position assigned him by sci- 
entific men. Few greater books of travel have been 
written in our day. * * ♦ Dr. Schweinfurth has also 
much to say on the flora, fauna, and physical aspects of 
the countries through which he passed ; and enlivens 
his tale by scores of drawings, some of which are re- 
markably lifelike and artistic. We may add that, al- 
though he never obtrudes himself, we come to know 
him by a thousand unconscious touches ; and we do 
not envy those who, when they close the book, have 
not learned to admire his bright, genial nature, min- 
gled firmness and courtesy, and noble devotion to 
great aims.— (?Zo&e, London. 

Dr. Schweinfurth has arrived fresh from the can- 
nibals of Monbuttoo with human skulls and bones al- 
most warm from the saucepans of the savages. He 
can even describe the sauces which these gourmands 
use in their dainty dishes. Such men as Dr. Schwein- 
furth will always have the regard and esteem of all 
true friends of science ; he belongs to the same metal 
that has already formed a wedge which will force open 
the secrets of Inner Africa. — Nature, London. 

Dr. Schweinfurth adds to the accuracy and perspicac- 
ity of the trained scientific mind a charming style, 
admirably rendered by the translator, which carries 
one along through the record of his observations and 
of the main purpose of his expedition— animated by 
many-sided intelligence, and information by whose 
extent he only is unimpressed, and guided by true 
German thoroughness. The man interests us as much 
as the facts, by his self-abnegation, his quiet taking 
for granted of feats upon which most travelers would 
have reasonably dilated, his deliberate manner of do- 
ing extraordinary things, his calmness in danger, his 
patience in suffering, and the stores of laboriously ac- 
quired information on all sorts of collateral subjects 
on which he draws when difficulties arise and opin- 
ions differ. No impatience, no anxiety to push on 
and get over intervening space disturbs this equani- 
mous traveler, who is perpetually observing every 
thing.— (Spectator, London. 


A Fast Life on the Modern Highway. 

A Fast Life on the Modern Highway ; being a Glance into the Railroad World from a 
New Point of View. By Joseph Taylor. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $i 50; Paper, $i 00. 


“Mr. Joseph Taylor has been for many years con- 
nected with railroads, in various capacities, and prob- 
ably knows more about life on the rail than any other 


man living. He has written a lively, entertaining 
book, full of anecdote and sketches of character, and 
illustrated with many humorous engravings.” 


Harper (>• Brothers^ List of New Books. 


3 


The Christian Pastor. By Dr. Tyng. 

The Office and Duty of a Christian Pastor. By Stephen H. Tyng, D.D., Rector of St. 
George’s Church in the City of New York. Published at the request of the Students and 
Faculty of the School of Theology in the Boston University. i2mo, Cloth, $i 25. 


Direct, plain, and practical, and illustrated all 
through by the wealth of experience and wisdom 
gained in a busy pastorate extending over fifty years. 
— Boston Daily Advertiser. 

More than fifty years of active ministry have given 
this distinguished rector ample opportunity for wide 
observation and experience in his calling, and what he 
says here must necessarily be valuable. The volume 
would be an acceptable addition to every minister’s 
library. It treats of pastoral dnty rather than pastor- 
al theology — which gives a practical turn — the author 
dividing his subject into the heads of a pastor’s 
objects, qualifications, instruments, agencies, power, 
and attainments. — Brooklyn Union. 

It is earnest in thought and unpretending in style. 
— Brooklyn Eagle. 

It embodies the results of his observation and ex- 
perience in an active ministry extending over a pe- 

Trollope’s Lady Anna. 


riod of more than half a century, and deals with the 
Christian pastor in his object, his qualifications, his 
instruments, his agencies, his power, and his attain- 
ments, simply, practically, and with logical exactness. 
The result is a description of the minister of the Gos- 
pel in his two-fold and inseparable offices of preacher 
and pastor both forcible and complete. Illustrations 
from actual occurrences are freely given to enforce the 
truths exhibited. The words of direction, warning, 
and encouragement are charged with eloquence, and 
with an earnestness and fervor born of a high and 
just conception of the place and power of the Chris- 
tian ministry. It is well that the venerable author 
has consented to publish it. The topics embraced 
in it are of paramount importance. Never was there 
a greater amount of error prevalent regarding them. 
Rarely have they been discussed so lucidly and prac- 
tically.— fi'cotWsA- .A Tnerfcan Journal, New York City. 


Lady Anna. A Novel. By Anthony Trollope, Author of “ The Warden,” “Barchester 
Towers,” “ Phineas Finn,” “ Phineas Redux,” “ Dr. Thorne,” &c., &c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 


Victor Hugo’s Ninety-Three. 

Ninety-Three. A Novel. By ViCtor Hugo, Author of “ Toilers of the Sea,” “’Les Misera- 
bles,” &C. Translated by Frank Lee Benedict. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents ; i2nio. Cloth, $1 75. 


Hugo is one of the great names in literature. In 
“Ninety-Three” we have probably the culmination 
of its author’s career in prose fiction ; certainly we 
find in it all his peculiar traits, whether of plot-con- 
trivance, character-drawing, description, style, or 
moral purpose. — N. Y. Times. 

The finest historical romance yet written by any 
French author. — Philadelphia Press. 

Reproduces with powerful effect the scenes of the Rev- 
olution, and is full of dramatic interest.— Y. World. 

Beautiful sayings, true and noble thoughts, inex- 
pressibly tender sentiments. — Pall Mall Budget, Lond. 

Nowhere else can there be found such graphic and 
startling pictures of the French Revolution.— .4 16ani/ 
Evening Journal. 

Victor Hugo is a great thinker as well as a great 
novelist, and his fictions ought to be read, if only for 
the instruction and suggestion they contain. Other 
novelists are entertaining ; he moves and convinces 
or provokes to opposition. He is one of the most 
original of all the famous writers of Europe since 
Goethe’s time.— Springfield Republican. 

The consciousness of a pervading grandeur and 
power in this work that allows of its admission among 
the truly great dramatic novels of all languages.— 
Boston Post. 

As a picture of the Reign of Terror, and the master- 
spirits of that awful period, “Ninety-Three” unques- 
tionably stands among the greatest works of the im- 
agination. It belongs to that higher range of histor- 
ical fiction which, in a certain sense, is more truthful 
than history. The reader will rise from its perusal 
with a clearer conception of the men and the events 
of V annee terrible of the French Revolution, than if he 
had given years of study to the chronicles of that pe- 
riod. — Boston Journal. 


The types in “Ninety -Three” are many and grand. 
— Athenceum, London. 

The grandeur of the description, the skillful inven- 
tion of situations, the striking portrayal of passion, 
the exquisite delineation of child life, the amazing 
brilliancy of the language will make this creation of 
Victor Hugo’s take a higher rank as a literary pro- 
duction than even his “Notre-Dame de Paris.”—/Sco<- 
tish-American Journal, New York City. 

“ Ninety-Three ” will have a hundred thousand read- 
ers.— Boston Traveller. 

The storming of the castle is a grand piece of de- 
scriptive writing— intense in its picturesque realism, 
and almost overwhelming in its vividness. The sub- 
sequent scenes in which Gauvain appears, especially 
after the capture of the Marquis, are full of pathos and 
dignity. The final interview between him and Cimonr- 
dain is exquisitely told, and the concluding chapters 
deserve to rank among the finest things that Victor 
Hugo has ever given to the world. An interview be- 
tween Robespierre, Danton, and Marat, in the early 
part of the book, is also a masterpiece. These three 
ruling spirits of the Terror are superbly drawn and 
magnificently individualized. They stand out mar- 
velously real in every distinctive peculiarity of dress, 
face, and mental characteristic. The livid, dirty, and 
snake-like Marat, the cautious, cold, and dandified 
Robespierre, and the huge, reckless, and daring Dan- 
ton were never before so grandly sketched. The 
word-pictures that Hugo has given of them haunt the 
memory as vividly as though one bad gazed upon and 
heard the originals in the blood-chilling interview de- 
scribed. The work has been translated by Frank Lee 
Benedict,who has performed his task wonderfully well, 
preserving the style and manner of his author with 
remarkable skill.— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 


Second-Cousin Sarah. 

Second-Cousin Sarah. A Novel. By F. W. Robinson, Author of “ Little Kate Kirby,” 
“For Her Sake,” “Poor Humanity,” “Her Face was Her Fortune,” “Carry’s Confession, 
&c., &C. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 


4 


Harper 6 ^ Brothers' List of New Books. 


Winchell’s Doctrine of Evolution. 

The Doctrine of Evolution : Its Data, its Principles, its Speculations, and its Theistic Bear- 
ings. By Alexander Winchell, LL.D,, Chancellor of Syracuse University, Author of 
“ Sketches of Creation,” “ Geological Chart,” Reports on the Geology and Physiography 
of Michigan, &c., &c. i2mo. Cloth, $i oo. 


“In this admirable treatise Prof. Winchell gives a 
snccinct statement of the doctrine of evolution, to- 
gether with a clear and impartial summary of the ar- 
guments on both sides of the controversy. His object 
being merely to give a comprehensive view of the 


subject, he neither attacks nor defends the doctrine'; 
and readers who want to know what evolution means, 
and to make themselves acquainted with the views 
of the scientists who have made the doctrine a study, 
will find this volume an invaluable assistant.” 


John Worthington’s Name. By Frank Lee Benedict. 

John "Worthington’s Name. A Novel. By Frank Lee Benedict, Author of “ My Daugh- 
ter Elinor,” “Miss Van Kortland,” “Miss Dorothy’s Charge,” &c. 8vo, Paper, $i oo; 
Cloth, 50. 


Evangelical Alliance Conference, 1873. 

History, Essays, Orations, and Other Documents of the Sixth General Conference of the 
Evangelical Alliance, held in New York, October 2-12, 1873. Edited by Rev. Philip Schaff, 
D.D.. and Rev. S. lRENi^;us Prime. D.D. With Portraits of Rev. Messrs. Pronier. Carrasco 


and Cook, recently deceased. 8vo, Cloth, 
Calf, ^^8 50. 

About one hundred men, from various parts of the 
world, eminent for learning, ability, and worth, hold- 
ing high rank in theology, philosophy, science, and 
literature, men of genius, power, and fame, were care- 
fully selected, and invited to prepare themselves, by 
months and years of study, for the discussion of themes 
of immediate and vital importance. They were chos- 
en, as the men of thought and purpose best fitted to 
produce Treatises which should exhibit, in the most 
thorough and exhaustive form, the Teuth, as sustained 
by the Holy Scripture and the most advanced and en- 
lightened human reason. The results of this concen- 
trated thought and labor are embodied in this volume. 

Rarely has a volume issued from the press which 


nearly 800 pages, $6 00 ; Sheep, $7 00 ; Half 

contained a more varied and extensive array of talent 
and experience. 

The vital topics of Evangelical Theology, the delicate 
relations of Science and Religion, the difficult subjects 
of practical Benevolence, Philanthropy, and Reform 
are here discussed by clear, sound, and experienced 
minds. Pulpit orators, of renovm and recognized po- 
sition, have contributed to this volume their best pro- 
ductions. 

It is, in short, a library of Christian thought and 
learning— the latest expression of master-minds upon 
the important topics that are now moving the Chris- 
tian world— and should be read by all who would be 
educated in the thought of the age. 


Bulwer’s The Parisians. 

The Parisians. A Novel. 

Race,” “Kenelm Chillingly, 

With Illustrations by Sydney Hall. 

Few things in literature are finer than the description 
of the social condition of France which made her so 
easy a prey, in spite of the bravery and the pride of 
her people.— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

At every step we feel the charm of the author’s style, 
of his incisive wit, of his keen, clear observation. The 
volume abounds in brilliant sayings, as well as pro- 
found ones. There are chapters and books in “ The 
Parisians” on which the reader dwells with special 
pleasure, and to which every one will turn back with 
delight for a reperusal ; but there is none which he 
will feel inclined to skip in the hurry to get on with 
the story . — Boston Journal. 

The author has set before himself the task of paint- 
ing French society in Paris in the last days of the Sec- 
ond Empire, and he has accomplished this task, for- 


“ The Coming 
My Novel,” &c., &c. 
i2mo. Cloth, $1 50 Svo, Paper, $i 00. 

eigner as he was, with a skill which a born Frenchman 
might well envy. As an historical fiction, “ The Paris - 
ians” stands higher than “Rienzi” or the “Last Days 
of Pompeii." It is a satire in the sense that it remorse- 
lessly depicts the follies and crimes of the imperialist 
regime, and is a far abler satire than the “New Ti- 
mon.” It is more brilliant in its epigrammatic wit than 
“Pelham,” and smoother in the fiow of its narrative 
than “ Kenelm Chillingly.” * * * It will always be treat- 
ed by students of literature with the respect due to a 
brilliant and exceptionably able novel. — Woi-ldy'ii. Y. 

* *• * The reader who takes it up will not willingly 
lay it down until the last page is reached, and he will 
rise from its perusal with the conviction that it is a 
work worthy of a place by the side of “The Cax- 
, tons ” and “My Novel .” — Evening Post, N. Y. 


By Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton, Author of 
” “A Strange Story,” “The Caxtons,” “ 


Through Fire and Water. 

Through Fire and "Water. A Tale of City Life. By Frederick Talbot. Illustrated. 
8vo, Paper, 25 cents. 

This is a short but exciting narrative of London I startling incident and pathetic denouement.— A. Y. 
life, embracing within its narrow limits much of I World. 


Harper &* Brothers' List of New Books. 


5 


Annual Record of Science and Industry for 1873 . 

Annual Record of Science and Industry. Prepared by Prof. Spencer F. Baird, Assistant- 
Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. With the Assistance of some of the most Emi- 
nent Men of Science in the United States. Large i2mo, over 800 pages, Cloth, $2 00. 
(Uniform with the Annual Records for 1871 and 1872.) 

TAe three Volumes sent by mail^ postage prepaid^ on receipt of Five Dollars. 


The merits of this Annual are becoming very gener- 
ally appreciated, and it has met with great favor in 
Europe, where such journals as the Athenoeum^ The 
Academy, Nature, The Quarterly Journal of Science, 
Mechanics' Magazine, etc., place it at the head of works 
intended to give a satisfactory account of the prog- 
ress of science in all its branches. 

Unlike most other works having the same object, 
it is not a mere compilation of extracts from pub- 
lished journals. In every instance the matter pre- 
sented has been thoroughly digested and re-written 
by an expert, generally with additions from other 
sources, and often including results of original re- 
search on his own part; the authority whence it has 
been derived or suggested being always indicated. A 
list of the journals most frequently used is given at 
the end of the volume ; but, besides these (nearly one 
hundred in number), a much larger series, in the un- 
rivaled library of the Smithsonian Institution, has been 
at the command of the author and his assistants. 

The volume is prefaced by a Summary of Progress 
during the year, arranged under different heads, each 
department being prepared by some eminent special- 
ist. In this Summary reference is made not only to 

Colonel Dacre. 

Colonel Dacre. A Novel. By the Author 

There is much that is attractive both in Colonel 
Dacre and the simple-hearted girl whom he honors 
with his love. — Athenceum, London. 

Colonel Dacre is a gentleman throughout.— PaH 
Mall Gazette. 

The readers of “ Caste" who take up this novel on 
the merits of .“Caste” will find their expectations 
fully realized ; and, having once taken it up, they will 


the articles actually presented in the volume, but to 
such others as are necessary to give a connected idea 
of the principal topics. 

A work entitled The Annual of Scientific Discovery 
was discontimred when this Annual Record was com- 
menced. The Record, therefore, although entirely 
independent of its predecessors, in reality forms a 
continuation ; so that those who already possess the 
Annual of Scientijic Discovery will do well to secure 
the present series. 

A special feature of the present Annual is its Bi- 
ographical Record, alphabetically arranged, of the 
men of science who have died during the year, at 
home and abroad. 

The value of the work is greatly increased, as a 
book of reference, by a thorough systematic table of 
contents, to which specialists can conveniently refer 
for information as to any subject of study. 

In addition to this, an exhaustive alphabetical in- 
dex furnishes the means of ready reference to names 
and topics. 

The volume for 1873 is much larger than either of 
its predecessors, occupying over 800 pages, of which 
114 are devoted to the Summary. 


of “Caste,” &c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

not willingly lay it aside until the last leaf has been 
turned. The real merits of the story consist in the 
elevated motives which it attributes to the principal 
characters and in the intensity with which it describes 
the longings and the yearnings which arise when nat- 
ural instincts and afifeciions are sacrificed to supposed 
duty or caprice. Colonel Dacre is a character not un- 
like Colonel Newcome.— jy. Y. World. 


Pet. A Book for Children. 


Pet; or, Pastimes and Penalties. By H. R. 
50 Illustrations. i2mo, Cloth, $i 50. 

Prettily written and sure to interest children. The 
illustrations are very good . — Pall Mall Gazette, London. 

A charming little volume . — Daily News, London. 

“Pet," the dearest little heroine who ever graced a 
story-book. — Athenceum, London. 

The book is capitally illustrated.— EaJamtncr, Lon- 
don. 

This is one of the nicest books ever published, as 
pretty as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing 
finer could be imagined than such a combination of 
fresh pages and fair pictures ; and while children will 
rejoice over it— which is much better than crying for it 
—it is a book that can be read with pleasure even by 
bald and bearded boys, and by girls who have become 
grandmothers.— Traveller, Boston. 


Haweis, Author of “ Music and Morals.” With, 

Evidently the work of a writer who is at heart a 
boy yet, and gains from this fact a freshness and 
truth.— jSbwr, London. 

A delightful story for children. — Scotsman. 

It is the relation of a series of incidents in the lives 
of four children, told with rare ease and naturalness 
of style, making a most interesting and agreeable 
child’s book. Each one of the little people in it has a 
distinct character, which is brought out by the differ- 
ent chapters of the story with a skill that can hardly 
fail to famish genuine entertainment for the class of 
readers whom the book addresses .— Evening 
Gazette, Boston. 

It is a book to charm, to teach, and *0 set young 
folk thinking . — Philadelphia Press. 


“Ship Ahoy!” 


A Yarn in Thirty-six Cable Lengths. Illustrated by Wallis Mackay and Frederick 
Waddy. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. 


The book is capitally written, and exceedingly in- 
teresting in plot. It is told with a certain quaintness 
that is very attractive, and in its more serious phases 
is earnest and manly in tone. The illustrations are 


unique in their way, especially the initial letters at the 
head of the chapters. The spirit and the freshness 
of the narrative will highly recommend it. — Satur- 
day Evening Gazette, Boston. 


6 


Harper 6^ Brothers' List of New Books. 


Vincent’s Land of the Vlfhite Elephant. 

The Land of the White Elephant : Sights and Scenes in Southeastern Asia. A Personal 
Narrative of Travel and Adventure in Farther India, embracing the Countries of Burma, 
Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin-China {1871-2). By Frank Vincent, Jr. Magnificently 
illustrated with Map, Plans, and numerous Woodcuts. Crown 8vo, Cloth, ^3 50. 


A not unwelcome addition to our knowledge of the 
Indo-Chinese peninsulas. It is written in a clear and 
unaffected style. It is descriptive of forests, lakes, 
rivers, capitals, and ruins. It shows the author to be 
possessed of some of the qualities indispensable to 
successful exploration — energy, endurance of heat, 
fatigue, and petty annoyances, good-humor, quickness 
of observation, and intelligence. Its value is enhanced 
by two or three maps throwing light on some disputed 
points of geography, as well as by many excellent en- 
gravings, which place before us the pagodas with their 
wonderful tracery and the reigning monarchs in their 
robes of state. — Saturday Revieiv, London. 

This is in many respects a model book of travel. 
For once a traveler eschews any thing like book- 
making, and, although Mr. Vincent visited India and 
China, Ceylon and Japan, he limits his narrative to 
lands that are far less familiar to us. The route he 
describes in his volume led him up the Irrawaddy to 
independent Burma; thence, returning to Eangoon, 
he made the circuit of the Malay Peninsula, and, after 
a visit to the kingdom of Siam, made his way through 
Cambodia to the French settlements in Cochin-China. 
The volume is profusely and excellently illustrated, 
and convenient maps add to its value. Mr. Vincent 
gives a plain but pleasant account of all that struck 
him as best worth noting. * * * In many ways the jour- 
ney w'as extremely interesting, and, what is more to 
our present purpose, it was a journey extremely inter- 
esting to read about. * * • The whole of his book is 
worth reading, as giving the latest observations of an in- 
telligent traveler over countries that are rapidly chang- 
ing: their characteristics. — Pall Mall Gazette, London. 

We are inclined to assign to this book a place of 
foremost interest among the travel books of the year. 
The architectural and sculptural plates alone add im- 
mensely to its vaXne,— Examiner, London. 

Farther India is still more or less a sealed book to 
most of us, and one could not desire a more pleasant 
tutor in fresh geographical lore than our author. He 
won our heart at once by plunging in mediae res, in- 
stead of devoting a chapter to the outward voyage ; 
and he tells us sensibly and intelligently, in a natural 
and unaffected style, what he saw and heard.— Jb/in 
Bull, London. 


It is a narrative of travel, undertaken by its author, 
an American gentlemen, to Farther India, and is full 
of valuable information, which is conveyed in a most 
attractive manner. The frankness and simplicity that 
distinguish the narrative throughout create an effect 
which leaves a very pleasant impression on the read- 
er’s mind. Mr. Vincent’s account embraces voyages to 
Burma, Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin-China, and 
abounds to overflowing in hitherto unpublished facts 
regarding these places. Every thing is told in the 
most natural manner imaginable, and there is not a 
page that shows the slightest evidence of padding or 
cramming, for the mere sake of producing a bulky vol- 
ume. There is a highly picturesque account of the 
grand ruins to be found at Angkor, and a remarkably 
entertaining description of the palace at Bangkok. 
The author contrives to inspire his reader with the 
same interest and enthusiasm in hearing of these sights 
as he himself experienced in seeing them. There is 
here but little, if any, of that tiresome moralizing and 
reflection that make so many books of travel at once 
a labor and an exasperation to the reader. On the 
contrary, Mr. Vincent simply describes what he has 
seen in a frank and unaffected manner, and leaves one 
to draw his own deductions. He has written nothing 
that is not of special interest to his subject, and his 
intelligence as a writer is not inferior to his closeness 
as an observer. The book is profusely illustrated. — 
Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

No former traveler or writer has seen and described 
these far-off lands so thoroughly and so intelligently. 
In fact, the pages are like revelations of a new and 
marvelous world. The illustrations, which are very 
numerous and well executed, are as remarkable as the 
letter-press; for some of them show architectural 
structures, of a very remote antiquity, that are amaz- 
ing for magnitude and splendor. The “ Nagkon Wat ” 
is the most extraordinary of these structures, and it is 
the subject of many striking pictures and diagrams. — 
Evening Bulletin, Philadelphia. 

The book is very simply and cleverly written. It is 
a truthful narrative of a journey, very seldom made, 
through a most interesting and little known country. 
The illustrations are beautifully engraved ; they look 
almost like photographs.— B aeon de Hubneb. 


Taken at the Flood. 

Taken at the Flood. A Novel. By Miss M. E. Braddon, Author of “Aurora Floyd,” 
“ Birds of Prey,” “ Charlotte’s Inheritance,” “ Publicans and Sinners,” “ To the Bitter End,” 
&c., &c. 8 VO, Paper, 75 cents. 


Field’s Memories of Many Men and of Some Women. 


Memories of Many Men and of Some Women : being Personal Recollections of Emperors, 
Kings, Queens, Princes, Presidents, Statesmen, Authors, and Artists, at Home and Abroad, 
during the last Thirty Years. By Maunsell B. Field. i2mo. Cloth, $2 00. 


The personal sketches of eminent characters are so 
cleverly drawn that we have the originals before us.— 
Philadelphia Press. 

Detailing in a frank, unpretending way a host of in- 
teresting anecdotes. — K Y. World. 


The book is very cleverly executed, and is enter- 
taining in no ordinary degree. * * * He has preserved 
plenty of anecdotes which embody much that is pithy 
and pungent about them.— Boston Saturday Evening 
Gazette. 


Lottie Darling. By John Cordy Jeaffreson. 

Lottie Darling. A Novel. By John Cordy Jeaffreson, Author of “Isabel,” “ Not Dead 
Yet,” “Live it Down,” “ Olive Blake’s Good Work,” &c. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

A story of healthy tone, and readable throughout.— I This story is well told. It opens up a phase of life 
Examiner, London. I hitherto untouched by any novelist.— Dat7jr News, Lon. 


Novels are sweets. All people with healthy literary appetites love them — almost all women ; a vast number 
of clever, hard-headed men. Judges, bishops, chancellors, mathematicians, are notorious novel readers, as 
well as young boys and sweet girls, and their kind, tender mothers. — W. M. Tuaokebay, in Roundabout Papers, 


HARPER’S RIBR^RY 

SELECT NOVELS. 


Harper’s Select Library of Fiction rarely includes a work which has not a decided charm, either from the 
clearness of the story, the significance of the theme, or the charm of the execution ; so that on setting out 
upon a journey, or providing for the recreation of a solitary evening, one is wise and safe' in procuring the 
later numbers of this attractive series . — Boston Transcript. 


PSIOE 


1. Pelham. By Bulwer $ 75 

2. The Disowned. By Bulwer 75 

3. Devereux. By Bulwer 50 

4. Paul ClilFord. By Bulwer 50 

5. Eugene Aram. By Bulwer 50 

6. The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer 50 

7. The Czarina. By Mrs. Holland 50 

8. Rienzi. By Bulwer 75 

9. Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 50 

10. The Nabob at Home 50 

11. Ernest Maltravei s. By Bulwer 50 

12. Alice ; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 50 

13. The Last of the Barons. By Bulwer..! 00 

14. Forest Days. By James 50 

15. Adam Brown, the Merchant. By H. 

Smith 50 

16. Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Bulwer.... 25 

1 7. The Home. By Miss Bremer 50 

18. The Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 75 

19. The False Heir. By James 50 

20. The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 50 

21. Nina. By Miss Bremer 50 

22. The President’s Daughters. By Miss 

Bremer 25 

23. The Banker’s Wife. By Mrs. Gore..., 50 

21. The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 25 

25. New Sketches of Every-day Life. By 

Miss Bremer 50 

26. Arabella Stuart. By James 50 

27. The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering. ... 50 

28. The Unloved One. By Mrs. Hofland. 50 

29. Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt. 25 

30. The Heretic. By Lajetchnikolf 50 

31. The Jew. By Spindler 75 

32. Arthur. By Sue 75 

33. Chatsworth. By Ward 50 

34. The Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray. 1 00 

35. Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 50 

36. Rose d’Albret. By James 50 

37. The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

38. The H Family. By Miss Bi emer 50 

39. The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering. 50 

40. Arrah Neil. By James 50 

41. The Jilt 50 

42. Tales from the German 50 

43. Arthur Arundel. By II. Smith 50 

44. Agincourt. By James 50 

45. The Regent’s Daughter 50 

46. The Maid of Honor 50 

47. Safia. By De Beauvoir 50 

48. Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 50 

49. The Improvisatore. By Andersen 50 

50. The Gambler’s AVife. ByMrs. Gre\\. 50 

51. Veronica. By Zschokke 50 

52. Zoe. By Miss Jewsbuvv 50 




53. 

54. 

55. 

56. 

57. 

58. 

59. 

60. 
61. 
62. 

63. 

64. 

65. 

66 . 

67. 

68 . 

69. 

70. 

71. 

72. 

73. 

74 . 

76. 

77. 

78. 

79. 

80. 
81. 
82. 

83. 

84. 

85. 

86 . 

87. 

88 . 

89. 

90. 

91. 

92. 

93. 

95. 

96. 

97. 

98. 

99. 
100 . 
101 . 
102 . 

103. 

104. 

105. 


PEIOE 

Wyoming ^ 50 

De Rohan. By Sue 50 

Self. By the Author of ‘ ‘ Cecil ” 75 

The Smuggler, By James 75 

The Breach of Promise 50 

Parsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 25 
A Cliance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 50 

The White Slave 1 00 

The Bosom Friend. By Mrs, Grey.. 50 

Amaury. By Dumas 50 

The Author’s Daughter. By Mary 

Howitt 25 

Only a Fiddler ! &c. By Andersen.... 50 

The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 50 

The Foster-Brother. Edited by Leigh 

Hunt 50 

Love and Mesmerism. By H. Smith. 75 

Ascanio. By Dumas 75 

Lady of Milan. Edited by Mrs. 

Thomson 75 

The Citizen of Prague 1 00 

The Royal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore . 50 

The Queen of Den mark. By Mrs. Gore 50 

The Elves, &c. By Tieck 50 

75. The Step-Mother. By James 1 25 

Jessie’s Flirtations 50 

Chevalier d’Harmental. By Dumas. 50 
Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore. 50 
The Commander of Malta. By Sue.. 50 

The Female Minister 50 

Emilia Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh. 75 
The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Row- 

croft 50 

The Chronicles of Cloveraook 25 

Genevieve. By Lamartine 25 

Livonian Tales 25 

Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 25 

Father Darcy. By Mrs, Marsh 75 

Leontine. By Mrs. Maberly 50 

Heidelberg. By James 50 

Lucretia. By Bulwer 75 

Beauchamp, By James 75 

94. Fortescue. By Knowles 1 00 

Daniel Dennison, &c. By Mrs. Hofland 50 

Cinq-Mars. By De Vigny 50 

Woman’s Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 75 
The Castle of Ehrenstein. By James 50 

Marriage. By Miss S. F'errier 50 

Roland Cashel. By Lever 1 25 

Martins of Cro’ Martin. By Lever... 1 25 

Russell. By James 50 

A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald. . 50 

Norman’s Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh... 50 

Alamance 50 

Margaret Graham. By James 25 


2 


Harpet^s Library of Select Novels. 


PBIOB 

106. The Wayside Cross. By E. H. Mil- 

man $ 25 

107. The Convict. By James 50 

108. Midsummer Eve. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 50 

109. Jane Eyre. By Currer Bell 75 

110. The Last of the Fairies. By James.. 25 

111. Sir Theodore Broughton. By James 50 

112. Self-Control. By Mary Brunton 75 

113. 114. Harold. By Bulwer 1 00 

115. Brothers and Sisters. By Miss Bremer 50 

116. Gowrie. By James 50 

117. A Whim and its Consequences. By 

James 50 

118. Three Sisters and Three Fortunes. 

By G. H. Lewes 75 

119. The Discipline of Life 50 

120. Thirty Years Since. By James 75 

121. Mary Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell 60 

122. The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By 

Thackeray 26 

123. The Forgery. By James 60 

124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Bremer 26 

125. 126. The Caxtons. By Bulwer 75 

127. Mordaunt Hall. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

128. My Uncle the Curate 50 

129. The Woodman. By James 75 

130. The Green Hand. A “ Short Yarn ” 75 

131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 1 00 

132. Shirley. By Currer Bell 1 00 

133. The Ogilvies 50 

134. Constance Lyndsay. By G. C. H 60 

135. Sir Edward Graham. By Miss Sin- 

clair 1 00 

136. Hands not Hearts. By Miss Wilkin- 

son 60 

137. The Wilmingtons. By Mrs. Marsh.. 50 

138. Ned Allen. By D. Hannay 60 

189. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 75 

140. The Maid of Orleans 75 

141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 50 

142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 50 

143. Reginald Hastings. By Warburton.. 50 

144. Pride and Irresolution 60 

145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 50 

146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell. 50 

147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

148. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trol- 

lope 50 

149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 50 

150. Singleton Fontenoy, R. N. By Hannay 60 

161. Olive. By the Author of “ The Ogil - 

vies ” 50 

162. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 

153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh. 50 

164. The Commissioner. By James 1 00 

165. The Wife’s Sister. By Mrs. Hubback 50 

156. The Gold Worshipers 50 

157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom. 50 

168. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caro- 
line Norton 50 

159. Arthur Conway. By Captain E. H. 

Milman 60 

160. The Fate. By James 50 

161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. 

Maberly 50 

162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 

163. The Tutor’s Ward 50 

164. Florence Sackville. By Mrs. Burbury 75 

165. RavensclifFe. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 1 00 


PRIOH 

167. The Head of the Family. By Miss 

Mulock $ 75 

168. Darien. By Warburton 50 

169. Falkenburg 75 

170. The Daltons. By Lever 1 60 

171. Ivar; or. The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss 

Carlen 50 

172. Pequinillo. By James 50 

173. Anna Hammer. By Temme 50 

174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James... 50 

175. Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 50 

176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer 1 50 

178. Katie Stewart 25 

179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 60 

180. Agnes Sorel. By James 50 

181. Agatha’s Husband. By the Author of 

“Olive” 50 

182. ViUette. By Currer Bell 75 

183. Lover’s Stratagem. By Miss Carlen. 50 

184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess 

D’Orsay 60 

185. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 75 

186. Lady Lee’s Widowhood 50 

187. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever... .1 25 

188. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever..... 75 

189. Quiet Heart 25 

190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

191. Ticonderoga. By James 50 

192. Hard Times. By Dickens 60 

193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey 60 

194. The Mother’s Recompense. By Grace 

Aguilar 75 

195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 1 25 

196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell . 50 

197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Du- 

puy 50 

198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jews- 

bury 50 

199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

200. The Old Dominion. By James 60 

201. John Halifax. By the Author of 

“Olive,” &c 75 

202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh. ... 50 

203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 

204. Leonora d’Orco. By James 50 

205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 50 

206. The Rose of Ashurst. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant.... 75 

208. Scenes of Clerical Life 75 

209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell. 25 

210. 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever... 50 

212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock.. 50 

213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 25 

214. Misrepresentation. By Anna H. 

Drury 1 00 

215. The Mill on the Floss. By George 

Eliot 76 

216. One of Them. By Lever 75 

217. A Day’s Ride. By Lever 50 

218. Notice to Quit. By Wills 50 

219. A Strange Story 1 00 

220. Brown, Jones, and Robinson. By 

Trollope 60 

221. Abel Drake’s Wife. By John Saun- 

ders 75 

222. Olive Blake’s Good Work. By J. C. 

Jeaffreson 75 

223. The Professor’s Lady 25 

224. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 50 

225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon .. 75 


Harper's Library of Select Novels. 


3 


PEIOB 


226. Bairington. By Lever ^75 

227. Sylvia’s Lovers. ByMrs. Gaskell.... 75 

228. A First Friendship 50 

229. A Dark Night’s Work. By Mrs. 

Gaskell 50 

230. Countess Gisella. By E. Marlitt 25 

231. St. Olave’s 75 

232. A Point of Honor 50 

233. Live it Down. ByJeaffreson 1 00 

234. Mai'tin Pole. By Saunders 50 

235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Ponsonby. 50 

236. Eleanor’s Victory. By M. E. Braddon 75 

237. Kachel Kay. By Trollope -60 

238. John Marchmont’s Legacy. By M. 

E. Braddon 75 

239. Annie Warleigh’s Fortunes. By 

Holme Lee 75 

240. The Wife’s Evidence. By Wills 50 

241. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 75 

242. Cousin Phillis 25 

243. What Will He Do With It? By Bul- 


wer 1 50 

244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 50 

245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray 50 

246. Maurice Dering. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

247. Margaret Denzil’s History 75 

248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus 

Sala 75 

249. Mattie: a Stray 75 

250. My Brother’s Wife. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 50 

251. Uncle Silas. ByJ. S. Le Fanu 75 

252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray.. 25 

253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 50 

254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50 

255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 

256. Denis Doone. By Annie Thomas. ... 50 

257. Belial. 50 

258. Carry’s Confession 75 

259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Ed- 

wards 50 

260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Ed- 

wards 50 

261. Guy Deverell. ByJ. S. LeFanu.... 50 

262. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 75 

263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony 

Trollope 50 

264. Agnes. ByMrs. Oliphant 75 

265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas.. 75 

266. Maxivell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 75 

267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo 75 

268. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Olip- 

hant 50 

269. True History of a Little Ragamuffin. 

By James Greenwood 50 

270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of “A 

First Friendship ” 1 00 

271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

272. Phemie Keller. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 50 

273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates.... 50 

274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George 

Eliot 75 

275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saun- 

ders 75 

276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu. 50 

277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 75 


PBIOE 


278. The Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell $ 75 

279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. 

Linton 75 

280. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By 

C. Clarke 60 

281. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles 

Lever 50 

282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant . 50 

283. Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Black- 

more 75 

284. Bernthal. From the German of L. 

Muhlbach 50 

285. Rachel’s Secret 75 

286. The Claverings. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 50 

287. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss 

Thackeray 25 

288. Played Out. By Annie Thomas 75 

289. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 50 

290. Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn 

Linton 50 

291. Nora and Archibald Lee 50 

292. Raymond’s Heroine 50 

293. Mr. Wynyard’s Ward. By Holme 

Lee 50 

294. Alec Forbes. By George Macdonald 75 

295. No Man’s Friend. ByF. W. Robin- 

son 75 

296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 50 

297. Caste.... 50 

298. The Curate’s Discipline. By Mrs. 

. Eiloart 50 

299. Circe. By Babington White 60 

300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S. Le 

Fanu 50 

301. Carlyon’s Year. By James Payn 25 

302. The Waterdale Neighboi s 50 

303. Mabel’s Progress 50 

304. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald... 50 

305. The Brothers’ Bet. By Miss Carlen. 25 

306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie 

Thomas. Illustrated 25 

307. Margaret’s Engagement 50 

308. One of the Family. By James Payn. 25 

309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By 

a Barrister 50 

310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 38 

311. Charlotte’s Inheritance. Sequel to 

“ Birds of Prey. ” By Miss Braddon 50 

312. Jeanie’s Quiet Life. By the Author 

of “St. Olave’s” 50 

313. Poor Humanity. ByF. W. Robinson 50 

314. Brakespeare. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

315. A Lost Name. ByJ. S. Le Fanu.... 50 

316. Love or Marriage? By W. Black. ... 50 

317. Dead- Sea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 50 

319. The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly. By 

Lever 50 

320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik.... 50 

321. Nature’s Nobleman. By the Author 

of “Rachel’s Secret” 50 

322. Kathleen. By the Author of “Ray- 

mond’s Heroine” 50 

323. That Boy of Norcott’s. By Charles 

Lever 25 

324. In Silk Attire. By W. Black 50 

325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 25 

326. False Colors. By Annie Thomas 60 


4 


Harper^ s Library of Select Novels. 


PEIOE 


327. Meta’s Faith. By the Author of “ St. 


328. Found Dead. By James Payn 50 

329. Wrecked in Port. By Edmund Yates 50 

330. The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 75 

331. A Beggar on Horseback. By James 

Payn 35 

332. Kitty. By M. Betham Edwards 50 

333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas ...., 50 

334. Hirell, By John Saunders 50 

335. Under Foot. By Alton Clyde 50 

336. So Runs the World Away. By Mrs. 

A. C. Steele 50 

337. Baffled. By Julia Goddard 75 

338. Beneath the Wheels 50 

339. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 50 

340. Gwendoline’s Harvest. By James 

Payn 25 

341. Kilmeny. By William Black 50 

342. John; A Love Story. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 50 

343. True, to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 50 

344. Veronica. By the Author of “Ma- 

bel’s Progress ” 50 

345. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author 

of ‘ ‘ Gilbert Rugge ” 50 

346. Estelle Russell 75 

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author 

of “Raymond’s Heroine” 50 

348. Which is the Heroine ? , 50 

349. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer 

Collins 50 

350. . In Duty Bound. Illustrated 50 

351. The Warden and Barchester Towers. 

By A. Trollope 75 

352. From Thistles — Grapes? By Mrs, 

Eiloart 50 

353. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 50 

354. Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite. 

By Anthony Trollope, Illustrated... 50 

355. Earl’s Dene. By R. E. Francillon 50 

356. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 50 

357. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn.. 50 

358. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon. . 

Illustrated 50 

359. Monarch of Mincing - Lane. By W. 

Black. Illustrated 50 

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Rid- . 

dell 50 

361. Anteros. By the Author of “Guy 

Livingstone” 50 

362. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross 

Church 50 

363. Won — Not Wooed. By James Payn 50 

364. For Lack of Gold. By Chas. Gibbon 50 

365. Anne Furness 75 


366. A Daughter of Heth, By W. Black . 50 

367. Durnton Abbey. By T. A. Trcllope. 50 

368. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. F .rjeon... . 40 

369. Levels of Arden. By M. E. Braddon. 


Illustrated 75 

370. Fair to See. ByL. W. M. Lockhart. 75 

371. Cecil’s Tryst. By James Payn 50 


% PRIOS 

372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid...^ 50 

373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas.... 25 

374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 40 

375. A Bridge of Glass. By F.W. Robinson 50 

376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham.. 75 * 

377. A Good Investment. By William 

Flagg 50 

378. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel 

Hoey 50 

379. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

380. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 50 

381. The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Black- 

more..... 75 

382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon... ‘ 50 

383. A Girl’s Romance, and Other Tales. 

By F. W. Robinson 50 

384. Dr. Wainwright’s Patient. By Ed- 

mund Yates 50 

385. A Passion in Tatters. By Annie 

* Thomas 75 

386. A Woman’s Vengeance. By James 

Payn 50 

387. The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By William Black 75 

388. To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 75 

389. Robin Gray. By Charles Gibbon..... 50 

390. Godolphin. By Bulwer 50 

391. Leila. By Bulwer 50 

392. Kenelm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. 75 

393. The Hour and the Man. By Harriet 

Martineau 50 

394. Murphy’s Master. By James Payn... 25 

395. The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Col- 

lins 50 

396. “ ‘He Cometh Not,’ She Said.” By 

Annie Thomas 50 

397. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illus- 

trated 75 

398. Too Soon. By Mrs. IVIacquoid 50 

399. Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss 

Braddon 75 

400. A Simpleton. By Charles Reade 50 

401. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 50 

402. Joseph the Jew 50 

403. Her Face was Her Fortune. By F. 

W. Robinson 50 

404. A Princess of Thule. By W. Black. 75 

405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jeaffreson. 75 

406. The Blue Rilfflon. By the Author of 

“St. Clave’s” 50 

407. Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By An- 

thony Trollope 25 

408. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 75 

409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of 

“Caste” 50 

410. Through Fire .and Water. By Fred- 

erick Talbot 25 

411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 50 

412. Taken at the Flood. By Miss Brad- 

don 75 

413. At Her Mercy. By James Payn — 50 


Harper & Brothers will send their works by mail postage prepaid^ to any part of the 
United States, on receipt of the price. 


PIKE’S SUB-TROPICAL RAMBLES 

AND LIFE IN THE MAURITIUS. 

Sub-Tropical Rambles in the Land of the Aphanapteryx. By Nicolas Pike, 
U. S. Consul, Port Louis, Mauritius. Profusely Illustrated from the Author’s 
own Sketches ; containing also Maps and valuable Meteorological Charts. 
Crown 8 VO, Cloth, $3 50. 


• * * Rarely have we met with a book of travels 
more enjoyable, and few have been written by a 
sharper or closer observer. To recapitulate a tithe 
of the heads of the information he provides would 
exhaust the limits of the longest paragraph, and we 
must content ourselves with saying that he has left 
very little indeed to be gleaned by his successors in 
the task o^ bringing to the mind what a wealth of 
beauty and' novelty there is to be found on the island 
of Mauritius.— Standard, London. 

Whether on laud or water. Col. Pike is an indefati- 
gable collector, and "an observant and enthusiastic 
naturalist. His accounts of his marine excursions 
over the extensive coral reefs which encircle the isl- 
and fill some of the most pleasant pages in the volume ; 
a better description of tropical submarine beauties 
and rarities has seldom, if ever, been given. * * * 
The picturesque scenes of tropical life and vegetation, 
which our author seems never tired of painting in 
glowing language. — Athenceum, London. 

His book shows a width and comprehensiveness of 
scope, with an amount of pains in collecting details, 
which must entitle the author to much praise. He 
has brought to his task a mind keenly alive to the 
aspects both of nature and of human life, and he has 
lost no opportunity either of observing the facts with- 
in his range, or of suggesting judicious and thought- 
ful reflections concerning them. To the tastes of a 
student of science he adds the practical sense of a 
man of business and the shrewdness of a citizen of 
the world. To a scientific eye nowhere is the book 
of nature more widely open than in this “gem of the 
ocean," as for beauty, variety, and physical wealth 
the Isle of France has been called. Its rich vegeta- 
tion, its waterfalls, its natural caverns, its wild forest 
lands open inexhaustible sources of pleasure and 
admiration. Its coasts, its rivers, and its inland 
scenery afford the zoologist never-ending stores for 
collection and study.— Satarday Review, London. 

A book to delight the naturalist.- GrapAic, Lon- 
don. 

A remarkably interesting and attractive volume. 
As an account of a very interesting country but little 
known, it has a special value. The descriptions of 
scenery are sometimes gorgeous in their coloring, and 
the author throughout writes with enthusiasm and a 
conscientious earnestness that are strikingly attract- 
ive. The animals, climate, vegetation, and natural 
features of the place are described with great minute- 
ness and an equal vigor. Few books of like scope and 
aim are more absorbing and instructive than is the 
one under notice. Its information is as entertaining 
as it is instructive, and the writer is to be thanked for 
having given so valuable and so spirited an account 
of a laud which, while it is one of the most fertile and 
valuable of the English colonies, has, until now, re- 
mained almost a terra incognita. The book is freely 
and excellently illustrated.— JSostan Saturday Evening 
Gazette. 


Exhaustive in its character, and profound without 
being dull in its treatment, written by an American 
gentleman who possesses every mental requisite for 
the task of investigating a little-known country; taste, 
science, industry, and a practical knowledge of how to 
turn natural resources to account, which gives the 
book a speculative value, in addition to its actual in- 
terest. Consul Pike has done his work with exem- 
plary thoroughness. * * * The author records his im- 
pressions of travel with a pleasant and impartial mi- 
nuteness. • * * He is keenly alive to the variety and 
beauty of nature, and also to the practical side of every 
scene, so that his shrewd observations upon social 
points, commercial interests, and national character 
come in with a quaint simplicity and dowurightness 
in the midst of his unaffectedly picturesque descrip- 
tions of landscape, natural productions, and bird and 
beast life. * * * The introductory chapters are ex- 
ceedingly pleasant, and give the reader a strong inter- 
est in the author’s many-sided mind and the vigorous 
intensity of character which lends the book a charm 
apart from its scientific and narrative value. We see 
the man as well as what the man saw, and we never tire 
of him. * * * Admirably illustrated. — Spectator, London. 

An enthusiastic student of natural science, and of 
very versatile tastes and aptitudes, at every step he 
finds something of interest — the magnificence of the 
natural scenery, the interest of the geological forma- 
tion, the affluence of the flora, the rich variety of fishes, 
reptiles, birds, and insects, the profuseness of fossils, 
the important climatology — in every department Mr. 
Pike shows a highly accomplished mind, while in nat- 
ural history he is an enthusiast. We have rarely if 
ever met with a book so full of information of a highly 
intelligent character. * • * Every thing pertaining to 
the social, political, and religious condition of the 
island is described with equal fullness. Chinese 
emigrants and Joss houses, Malabar Indians, Mahom- 
etan festivals, Romish ceremonies, street stalls, and 
St. Louis horse-races. His eager, inquisitive mind 
never lacked some object of pursuit, and never failed 
to elicit valuable information, and all with a sanguine 
enthusiasm that defies danger, makes light of diffl- 
culties, and grumbles at nothing. Unlike the subject- 
iveness and superficialness of which we have so often 
to complain in books of travel, Mr. Pike’s book is as 
full and complete in its information as a blue-book or 
a “Murray .” — British Quarterly Review. 

Consul Pike’s book is one of great interest to the 
naturalist, as his rambles were chiefly made in the pur- 
suit of plants and shells. — N. Y. Nation. 

The whole volume abounds with materials which 
will furnish the systematic naturalist with valuable 
data for arrangement and description, while they af- 
ford, at the same time, a tempting supply of instruct- 
ive and agreeable popular reading.— A. Y. Tribxine. 

The interest is well maintained throughout by his 
racy sketches of personal experience.- £ostan Daily 
Advertiser. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York, 

Harper & Brothers will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid,, to any part of 
the United States, on receipt of the price. 


VOLUME 49. [ 
Number 289. j 


H 


ARPER’S 


M ( NEW YORK, 3 

AGAZINE. 1 jtmK.1874. 


W ITH the June Number is commenced the Forty-ninth Volume of HARniR’s Magazine. Fo-: 

the artistic excellence, as for the number of its illustrations, Harper’s Magazine is unsurpassed. 
Its immense circulation (over 135,000 copies) enables the Publishers to expend upon it, for literary and art- 
istic features alone, the sum of fifty thousand dollars a year. Containing from fifty to one hundred per cent.i 
more matter than any other Magazine in the world, the greatest variety is secured in its contents, while it 
is possible, at the same time, to include long and important articles upon all subjects of commanding in- 
terest. Each Number contains Serial and short Stories from the best writers in Europe and America, 
contributed expressly for Harper’s Magazine ; richly illustrated articles of Travel ; carefully prepared 
papers of a Historical and Scientific character, a large number of which are profusely illustrated; timely 
articles upon important Current Topics ; lighter papers upon an infinite variety of subjects ; Poems from 
our most brilliant and popular writers ; and five Editorial departments covering every matter of current 
interest in Art, Society, History, Science, literature, and Anecdote. In the November Number was com- 
menced a 'New Serial Story of thrilling interest, by Prof. James De Mille, with graphic illustrations 
by W. L. Sheppard. “ My Mother and I,” a Love Story for Girls (beautifully illustrated), by the author 
of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” was commenced in the January Number. The Volume just commenced 
will be conspicuous for the variety of its contents and the attractiveness of its Illustrations. 

Published Motithly, with prqftise Illustrations, 


VOLUME 


XVI I r. 


H ARPER’S Weekly. 


( For 
1 1874. 


H ARPER’S WEEKLY is an illustrated record of and commentary upon the events of the times. It 
will treat of every topic. Political, Historical, Literary, and Scientific, which is of current interest, 
and will give the finest illustrations that can be obtained from every available source, original or foreign. 
This Journal contains more reading-matter, a larger number of Illustrations, and is conspicuously better 
edited and printed than any other Illustrated Newspaper. Its circulation is about 150,000 — more than 
four limes that of any similar publication. 


The volume for 1874 will present literary and pictorial attractions of the highest order of excellence. 
The most popular authors of America and England will contribute to its columns original Stories, 
Sketches, and Poems. “ Taken at the P'lood,” by Miss Braddon, will be followed by another Serial 
Story, entitled “A Strange World,” by the same author. It is fully equal to the first in dramatic interest 
and power. Published Weekly, with profuse Illustrations. 


VOI.UME [ 
vir. i 


H ARPER’S Bazar. 



ARPER’S BAZAR Is a Journal for the Home. It is especially devoted to all subjects pertaining 



its columns ; and other novelties will shortly be announced. The Bazar has a circulation of about 90,000. 

Published Weekly, with profuse Illustrations. 


Harpers s Magazine, Weekly, and Bazar. 


One Copy of either for One Year, $4.00, Postage prepaid. J 

IIAUPKIl’S MAfiAXINE, IIAItPEK’S AVEEKEY,?or HAItPEU’S B tXAR will be sent ^ 
tor one year to any Subscriber in tbe United States, POSTAGE PKEPAIB. on reeeint i 
of Four -Dollars by tbe Publisliers. ’ ^ 4 

The tlivee publications, tlie Magazine, Weekly, nnd Bazak, >vill be supplied, for One Year, for ^10 00 in one remittance • I 
any two of them for $7 00: postage payable by the subscriber at the office where received. * ' I 

An Extra Copy of either the Magazine, the Weekly, or the Bazar will be supplied gratis to every Club of Five Subscribers I 
who send ^>4 00 each in one remittance ; or Six Copies, without extra copy, of either publication, for $20 00 • postaee oav- ^ 
able by the subscribers at the offices where received. ’ ^ fa r 

The Volumes of the Weekly and Bazar commence with the year. When no time is specified, it will be understood tliat the 
subscriber wishes to commence with the Number next after the receipt of his order. 

The Volumes of the Magazine commence with the Numbers for June and December of each year. Sub«criptions may com- 
mence with any Number. When no time is specified, it will be understood that the subscriber wishes to begin with the ' 
first Number of the current Volume, and back Numbers will be sent accordingly. ^ ; 

Bound Volumes of the Magazine, each Volume containing the Numbers for‘Six Months, will be furnished for <7 00 per t 
Volume, sent by mail postage paid. Tound Volumes of the Weekly or Bazar, each containing the Numbers for a * 
Year, will be furnisbed for ^7 00, freight paid by the Publishers. ] 

The Postage within the United States is for the Magazine 24 cents a vear, for the Weekly or Bazar 20 cents a vear payable^/ 


yearly, semi-yearly, or quarterly, at the office where received. Subscriptions from Canada must be* accoinpaiued'with 1 
24 cents additional for the Magazine, or 20 cents for the Weekly or Bazar, to prepay the United States posta<>-e. 


In ordering the Magazine, the Weekly, or the Bazar, the name and address should be clearly written. When the dHection * 
IS to be changed, both the old and the new one must be given. ^ 


In remitting by mad, a Post-Office Order or Dralt payable to the order of Harper & Brother.s is preferable to ' 
Bank Notes, since, should the Order or Draft be lost or stolen, it can be renewed without loss to the sender The Post-Office ' 
Departrnent recommends that, when neither of these can be procured, tbe money be sent in a Bejiistered Uettcr ' 


The registration-fee has been reduced to eight cents, and the present registration system, the postal mithorities claim i«= 
tually an absolute protection against losses by mail. n , ,, , . a - 


, - - Postmasters are oblicredio reg^ister letters when regjiested'. 

The extent and character of the circulation of Harper’s Weekly and Bazar render them advauta<^eous vehicles for ad 
vertising. A limited number of suitable advertisements will be inserted at the following rates : In the Weeklv Outside^ 
Page, $4 00 a line ; Inside Pages, $2 00 a line. In the Bazar, 00 a line ; Cuts and Display, $1 25 a line. 

NOTICE TO CONTRIBUTORS.— Contributors sending Manuscripts for the Periodicals are requested to prepay at letter' 
rates— three cents the half ounce-and enc ose stamps for return, if desired. The rate for book manuscripts (two cents for 
every four ounces) is not at present allowed by the Department to apply to manuscripts for periodicals 


1 



♦ 








• •« 


* V.* 






f ♦ V I » k ^ 





.« 

■ c 

» J 



.- . I • • 

4 


''“3 

- -V 

-'X' 

/• ' 4 

% 


* ‘»« .- ^T*'; • • 


. V-** A"' 

‘.r', .'■ :' 


A<k 




• • • > . • ►* • 




:: •*' mV 

' • •* •V>'*' 

t T ' *A- 



• I 


.• '■:?frt 











■ 


« ' -• 




'Jr 




I 

/ . 


1 * — • 


. ... ■' :Vt-*:Cv: 

^ ' . ■•■,,•«/ .J- 


,• ♦ \ 




r 






Ki'’ * 


, V ,-^▼ 


**, 

. «.' 




* i. 


r. 


, > 




I t 


■ '■ I. ■ ■ .■■^- - '■' .. -..-• ■ 

.;.' 4 ’ ’ • ' ■ ^iamsoiM < .v'.- 





*1 ^ 

* i • •*. 







I "• . -x ■ ■ y 

h»d r ^ Ki. i. ■ * ^ • -v . • ' ' j 

t»-, ' A i ' . t-'f^i/r 'I--' • »’ 

.\ . •j ' - .V .r y< ici, . , V , * . 

K'-i : • <■ •! s*'„*,'''V'-vV • • V . ‘ 


I* 






♦i* ^»* * *^ > 

r,V>i .•... ' 

^ • • 


,<’.;V* '■ 

•Vl J 



J 'f' 




\‘ 




’T' 


vVfi^ . f • , 

vV^ *. » . 

^ ^ * fcT ‘ i* ♦ ' 

•/ •::* •:. . 


n j. 


5 ffL.%W ' 1 r^ k ^ • .' " ^ * 

.•*> k V , ' • fc 

^ 1 . *f > 1 *^ 

. m." 4 ' ‘.'; . •.■’#^^.Vj;;"' •• '•. ' ' • 

7 “' 'f' ' ■ -•■• '■ ' " ' . r 'iA’" • .' -' ■ ' '■ ''.' • ■'iv' 


Bfr. k’ *'ii. ' *,'- C • ■ V • ■ *5 V '. ,, "^'V’ f* - *• . '* '‘' 1 

’•> ‘i-*) »• ' .V • - -/Sl^ l\‘ r ^.•‘ r^‘ ■ • ■ V • 


A . ■. 



, 'o V • •#; . ,\ 




1 %. 


s) •, • ■ A«,(C 'St*^ ' ‘ ■• \ ■ ♦• ■ 

lT .1 . , •• w . . ' ' ' ) .“^ • 

r. -V -s ' -' --^ ‘ • ••* < •* V. ' V - - 

‘i • .“ \ • . ..L 1 < -•«— 


kV 



' »• «L »'*•*"' '%#, 

** '...i >.. ^ 

■■ • > ‘ ■-. V?<V‘^ ■ ‘ 


i‘' ,' ' 


p"^ 










C ‘ 

- .“ -J 




i* “w 







- V ' • 





■'"■"If,- . '.-' <-'i-^':'f',‘''' 


':.• ,;&V' '“T 

*>' - M 

• i « ' 



{H. _ , J ".■*• , . . ' > . * i. V‘ .s 3 ; , ' 

,r A.s i •*^1 ^ ♦ jp ^ 

'LA.' ,-'t? ■ L . 

- '.A 


- t 


I. J 




r 


■ ■' ■ ■ ’ 

. v," ■ 

W ‘ -/W V-'' ■ 




4 - '• ; ■• 'V' 

., Ar 


■’• ,/ 


I •• ^* ,',‘ 

k. 


■■ ■ :,■• r/ ’ w 

. -A m? 


i;. ■^■- / ■';.L"i| 


I 


4 



4 ^ 



.. < 



v- 


» % 


1. J^■ . 

' ' • k 



■ i 1 * J '■ 

- . ■ /.- vV. ■ 

•V- ./ 

vir :^.5.r 

• ? 


Tffil '>, ■' 







. I 


« *: - .; 

* 1 

. i’'.* , . . ' 

'' ' 

;." :''wV , 

1 ’ 

• ■ ■ ‘J 

/»' .'4-‘';s , ‘ 




i r • ' ' ' 

■ * . V' k y 





I 


A i Am. ^ . I 













■j^B^ 

m:i 


y^'U 


































